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sweetvoidstuff · 1 month ago

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Where You Belong - Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 2 I Part 3

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The air was thick with the scent of wolves—dominant, eager, waiting for the blood and spectacle that the Great Festival promised. Fires burned high, casting flickering shadows on the hardened faces of warriors, their fur bristling under the golden glow of the full moon. Packs from all across the region had gathered, their strongest fighters ready to prove their dominance.

You had never belonged here.

The festival was a celebration of strength, a chance for alphas to assert their power, for betas to prove their worth. And yet, here you were, thrust into the lineup not because of your skill or beauty or alluring scent but because Jungkook and his friends thought it would be amusing to watch you struggle.

"Try not to embarrass us too much," Jungkook sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he loomed over you. His sharp brown eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, his lips curled in the smirk you had grown to hate. "But don't go down too fast either. Wouldn’t want the others thinking our pack raises cowards."

His friends snickered beside him. Jimin clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, his grin wide. "If the beta kills her by accident, at least it'll save us the trouble."

It was the same cruelty as always, the same reminders that you were nothing in their eyes. The only omega in the lineup, your presence was already an insult to the tradition of the festival. Not just an omega, a half-blood with barely any pheromones, You had been chosen simply because, should you fall, no one would care.

But you cared.

Your father had taught you better than that. He had taught you that strength wasn’t just muscle or dominance—it was resilience, skill, and the will to stand when others wanted you on your knees. And right now, in front of the whole festival, you would not kneel.

The first match of your pack had gone to Jungkook, as expected. He had torn through his opponent without breaking a sweat, his wolf a fearsome sight of black fur and burning rage. Jimin had followed, his win just as decisive. Now, it was your turn.

Jungkook’s voice was low, meant only for you, Jimin, and the betas standing nearby.

"Request to fight in wolf form."

The weight of his words pressed into you, unspoken consequences laced between each syllable. He didn’t bother explaining himself, didn’t need to. You already understood. A fight in wolf form was chaos—claws, fangs, and wild instincts taking over. It would drag the match out longer, and that’s all Jungkook wanted from you.

A spectacle. A joke.

Not giving him a reason to lash out at you, you only nodded. Submission, on the surface. But your decision had already been made.

Stepping into the ring, your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline pulsing under your skin. Min Yoongi, a beta from another pack stood across from you, relaxed but watchful, the golden glow of his eyes sharp and curious. He was smaller than most betas, lean rather than bulky, but you weren’t fooled by that. He had no stake in your humiliation, no reason to hate you. But he would fight you seriously—that much you could tell.

The elder overseeing the match raised his voice, echoing across the festival grounds. "Omega, how will you fight?"

Jungkook’s burning gaze drilled into the side of your face, Jimin beside him watching expectantly. They thought they had you cornered, controlled. That you’d obey, as you always had.

You turned to the elder and, with a steady voice, declared, "Human-to-human fight."

A hush fell over the gathered wolves. While fighting in wolf form was a spectacle, but fighting as humas was always more brutal.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, barely audible, but you felt it like a lash against your spine. His fingers twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with frustration. You weren’t supposed to do that.

Jimin clicked his tongue in irritation. "Loves making things harder for herself, doesn’t she?"

Yoongi let out a quiet exhale, tilting his head slightly. His gaze flickered between you and Jungkook, your pack, taking in the way the air crackled with silent fury. His lips curled just slightly, as if amused.

The elder hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Very well. Human-to-human combat it is."

Jungkook said nothing, but the rage rolling off him was suffocating. This wasn’t just defiance. This was a direct, rejection of his order. But with the entire festival watching, he had no way to retaliate. Not yet.

And that was enough for you. Now he couldn’t make a joke out of you. They needed to look at you.

The moment the fight started, you dropped into a boxing stance—knees bent, fists up, weight balanced just right. It wasn’t the stance of a desperate omega trying to survive. It was the stance of a fighter.

Yoongi’s golden eyes flickered with intrigue before he lunged.

He was fast. Most betas were. But you had spent years dodging, training. You saw the way his shoulder twitched before a punch, the slight shift in his weight before a kick. You blocked the first hit with a quick guard, absorbing the impact, then pivoted to avoid the second.

A sharp jab came for your ribs—you twisted, catching his wrist mid-motion before driving your own fist into his gut. Yoongi exhaled sharply but laughed under his breath.

Jungkook had expected you to crumble within seconds, to be thrown around like a ragdoll, but you weren’t going down easy. You weren’t going down at all.

Each punch you took, you gave back just as hard. Like your father had trained you too.

He had done it not because he wanted you to fight, but because he had known—before you even understood it yourself—that the world around you would never be kind. You were a child of love, raised by a human mother and a wolf father, but love did not shield you from cruelty. Your peers had never accepted you. They rejected your scent, your blood, your place among them. And though your father had tried to seek help, even from his oldest friend—Jeon Hyunkook, Jungkook’s father—the response had been... disappointing.

All he could do was make you strong.

So, he trained you. Relentlessly. In secret. In the quiet hours of the morning and the long stretches of night, he taught you how to block, how to counter, how to never cower, how to never take a hit without returning one twice as vicious. You didn’t want to fight your pack – but he made sure if you ever needed to, you could.

And now, as Yoongi came at you again, fists cutting through the air with practiced precision, you moved the way your father had taught you. Your body absorbed the impact of his blows, but you struck back just as hard, just as fast.

Jungkook, from where he stood, froze.

It was the stance. The positioning of your feet, the way your weight shifted with every hit—it was familiar. It wasn’t just some random street-fighting technique. It was his father’s.

The same stance Jungkook had been trained in. The same one he had watched his father and his father’s best friend use when they had sparred together in their youth.

For the first time in years, Jungkook saw you with something other than disdain.

He saw you in awe.

The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. You weren’t just throwing punches wildly, trying to survive. You were trained. Disciplined. Dangerous.

And the fact that he had never noticed before—that he had spent years mocking you, pushing you down, underestimating you—made something twist inside him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. His nails bit into his palms as he watched you, his pulse pounding.

Who the fuck were you?

And why the hell had he never seen you like this before?

Jungkook was still as stone. His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, the muscles in his jaw flexing. His entire body was tense, shoulders squared, but his face—his face was unreadable.

Jimin, standing beside him, glanced over and smirked. He had spent years watching Jungkook sneer at you, ridicule you, not caring that the pack treated you like dirt beneath their paws. So, naturally, he assumed Jungkook’s silence was rage.

He chuckled, low and amused, before tilting his head toward the fight. “Man, this is embarrassing,” he drawled, loud enough for the surrounding wolves to hear. “An omega actually putting up a fight? What’s next, they gonna start challenging alphas?”

A few of the betas snickered.

But Jimin wasn’t really trying—his words lacked their usual venom. Because the truth was, you weren’t losing. And it was hard to mock someone who wasn’t just surviving but holding their own.

Still, he tried.

“Maybe Yoongi’s just going easy on her,” Jimin mused, tilting his head. “Bet he—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said shut up,” Jungkook snapped. His eyes were sharp, dark, something unreadable burning beneath them. Jimin studied his expression, confused. Jungkook’s usual cocky smirk was gone. He wasn’t sneering, wasn’t watching with amusement. He was just... watching.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly as he realized it. Jungkook wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disgusted. Jungkook watched you fight—his own father’s technique in every block, every strike, every calculated movement—he had to face a truth he had never considered before.

You were by far a normal omega, but you weren’t nothing.

In fact, your technique might even be better than his own.

Because while Jungkook had always had his strength, his dominance, his powerful wolf to fall back on, you never did. You had no overwhelming physical advantage, no alluring sent to bewitch, no natural-born dominance to carry you through a fight. Every skill, every movement, every counterstrike you delivered had been honed through sheer necessity.

You had never had the luxury of relying on brute force.

You had only ever had your precision.

And that made you lethal.

Jungkook’s smirk had long since faded. He was frozen, watching the fight unfold with something that wasn’t amusement anymore—it was shock. Disbelief. You were an omega, the weakest of the weak, someone that normally would be protected, but here you were, fighting like you had something to prove.

Maybe you did.

You barely felt your feet hit the ground before you were launching forward, meeting Yoongi’s charge. Flesh met flesh. His fist slammed against your ribs, rattling your bones, but you didn’t buckle. You didn’t fucking falter. Instead, you twisted with the impact, riding the force, and then swung back—

CRACK.

Yoongi came at you again, but this time, you met him halfway, slamming into his chest with a hard shove. Your voice tore from your throat before you even realized you were screaming—

"If you want me down, you have to do fucking better!"

Jungkook felt the words strike something deep inside him, because he knew—he knew—that you weren’t screaming at Yoongi. You were screaming at him, the boy who had spent years mocking you. At the Alpha who had made sure you stayed beneath his boot. At the pack that had treated you like nothing more than a whisper of a wolf, a mistake of mixed blood, something not even worth the dirt beneath their paws.

And yet—here you were.

Standing in the ring. Thriving in the fight.

You weren’t just holding your own.

You were fucking commanding it.

Yoongi, to his credit, only grinned. His gaze burned with something wild, something dark and delighted. He lifted a hand to his lip, swiping away the smear of blood, his teeth flashing as he let out a short, breathless laugh.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he exhaled, nodding at you.

Then, without another word, he launched himself at you again.

Your fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His mouth split open, blood speckling the air, but the bastard only grinned.

He moved fast—too fast. You barely had time to register his next strike before pain exploded along your temple, a white-hot flash in your vision. You staggered back, breath heaving, sweat dripping into your eyes, but you refused to give him another second.

You lunged.

Your knee rammed into his gut, forcing a guttural grunt from his throat. Yoongi gritted his teeth, hands snapping out like a viper—he grabbed you by the wrist, twisting viciously, but you let it happen. Let your body move with it, rather than against it, spinning into his hold.

Then you drove your elbow into his ribs.

He let out a sharp oof, his grip loosening just enough—just fucking enough—for you to wrench yourself free. Your feet barely hit the ground before you struck again.

A left hook.

A right jab.

A kick to his side so hard his breath hitched.

Yoongi laughed through the pain, his eyes burning like dying embers in the torchlight.

“Fuck, you hit harder than most of the alphas I’ve fought,” he panted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

His hand came away red.

So did yours.

Your knuckles—split open. Raw. The skin torn, blood dripping down your fingers in sluggish trails. Every punch you threw sent a fresh wave of pain up your arms, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Because Yoongi looked just as bad.

His own knuckles were just as ruined, just as bloody. There was a gash above his brow, leaking a slow, thick trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen where your punch had landed earlier. His breath came sharp, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. His silver hair was a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, tangled and wild.

And fuck—you were sure you looked just as wrecked.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Sweat stung your eyes. You could taste blood in your mouth—bitter, coppery, your own and Yoongi’s.

And yet—

And yet, your lips curled.

A slow, dangerous, feral grin.

The rage. The hunger. The fire in your blood that they had tried to smother since the day you were born.

And Yoongi—Yoongi fucking loved it.

“You could give up?” you asked sweetly.

You flexed your bloodied fingers. Lifted your hands again. Set your stance.

And Yoongi did the same.

“And miss this?” a gummy smile so contrasting to your situation appeared on Yoongi’s lips.

A sharp strike to your stomach—your body bent, but you retaliated with a brutal uppercut, sending Yoongi stumbling. You barely had time to straighten before he came back at you, his foot hooking behind your ankle, trying to take you down—

But you caught yourself—barely—your fingers scraping against the dirt, twisting your body at the last second to break free. You didn’t stop moving, even as you saw Yoongi’s fist flying straight for your face—

You ducked. Just in time.

His knuckles whistled past your ear. Your hair whipped in the force of the motion, and without thinking—without even meaning to—you laughed.

A breathless, wrecked, exhilarated laugh.

Yoongi’s sharp gaze snapped to you.

And something flickered in his expression—recognition. Understanding. Approval.

And then—he laughed too.

Just like that, it was no longer just a fight.

Jungkook, standing on the sidelines, did not know what the fuck he was feeling.

Couldn’t understand why his fingers were digging into his crossed arms.

Couldn’t comprehend why the sight of you—bloody, grinning, wrecked but refusing to fall—was making something in his chest coil, tight, too tight.

He should have been irritated. Furious. Should have wanted to throw you out of the ring himself for the audacity of standing toe to toe with a beta.

But instead—

Instead, he watched the way you grinned through the blood and sweat.

The way your eyes burned, your whole body thrumming with fire.

The way you and Yoongi relished the violence, reveled in the clash of fists and force, as if the rest of the world didn’t even exist.

And it made something dark and possessive curl in his stomach.

Why the hell couldn’t he look away.

Jimin shifted beside him, still watching the fight, and huffed. “They’re really enjoying this, huh? Kinda twisted for an omega, don’t you think?”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

Yoongi hit the ground hard.

The impact sent a shockwave through the dirt, dust kicking up as his back slammed against the packed earth. You didn’t let him breathe.

The moment he fell, you were on him.

Your thighs locked around his waist, knees digging into his sides, pinning him down with everything you had left. His wrists were caught in your hands, shoved down against the dirt beside his head. His breath was ragged beneath you, his chest rising and falling in rapid heaves, muscles taut as if he was considering another attempt to throw you off—

But he didn’t.

For the first time in the fight, Yoongi’s struggle faltered.

For the first time, he couldn’t move.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from your chin onto his bruised chest. Your arms ached, your knuckles raw and split, smeared with his blood and your own.

Even the elders hesitated, as if their mouths had forgotten how to form the words. As if their brains refused to process what had just happened—that an omega had just taken down one of the strongest betas in the tournament.

The murmurs rippling through the crowd, disbelief crackling in the air like static before the elders finally—finally—called it.

“The winner—”

Their voices barely registered.

Because beneath you, Yoongi grinned.

Grinned.

Like a wild thing, like he was thrilled that you had just slammed him into the dirt and stolen the win right out of his hands.

“Shit,” he panted, his chest rising against yours, breath fanning across your face. His eyes, dark with something you didn’t quite understand, locked onto yours, something dangerously close to admiration. “That was fun.”

Jungkook felt it like a stone in his gut. This was their victory. Your victory. But as he watched you sitting over Yoongi, the way your chests heaved in sync, the way Yoongi looked at you—not like an omega, not like a weakness, but something precious like an equal—

His jaw was clenched. His lips pressed together, nearly bloodless. His dark eyes, normally sharp with ridicule whenever he looked at you, were unnervingly blank.

He should have been satisfied.

You were a win for the pack. A win for him. Not the weak, undesirable omega without a scent he thought you to be. He was supposed to look at you and feel triumphant—they had pushed you into this fight as a joke, an amusement, and now, you were something to be paraded around.

But all he could focus on was you and Yoongi.

Too close.

The way you hovered over the beta, smirking, panting, wild, covered in sweat and blood—

And the way Yoongi grinned right back at you.

Like he saw you.

Like he fucking wanted you.

Your arms ached. Your knuckles burned. Your ribs protested with every breath, but none of that mattered. You had won. With a final exhale, you rolled off Yoongi, your body hitting the ground beside him, sweat and dirt clinging to your skin. The fight had been everything. Raw, violent, unhinged—but for the first time, it hadn’t been survival.

It had been yours.

Beside you, Yoongi groaned, the sound thick with exhaustion but laced with satisfaction. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time.”

You let out a breath that could almost be called a laugh. Your body was shaking, but not from fear—from the rush, the fire still licking at your veins.

Yoongi shifted, groaning again as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Almost instantly, his pack was there. Hands reached out to help him, guiding him upright, murmuring words of approval, of camaraderie. They even respectfully nodded at you.

And your pack?

Nothing.

Not a single hand. Not a single voice.

Jimin, standing beside Jungkook, scoffed. “Well, that was fucking unexpected.” His tone was light, amused, but there was an edge to it. “Guess even mutts can learn a few tricks.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin’s smirk wavered slightly as he glanced at Jungkook, expecting to see him pleased—expecting to see that familiar condescension in his leader’s gaze.

But Jungkook’s expression was strange.

Unreadable.

His jaw was tight, his body coiled like a wire pulled too taut, his eyes locked on you and Yoongi.

Because Yoongi was reaching for you.

Still breathing hard, still wearing that goddamn grin, Yoongi turned toward you, extending a hand.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want help—but because no one had ever offered it. And Yoongi must have noticed because something flickered across his face, something that almost looked like understanding. He didn’t move his hand away, just waited.

So you took it.

Yoongi’s grip was firm, warm, grounding. He pulled you up, steadying you when your legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion. And yet, he didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His fingers lingered, thumb brushing over the bloodied skin of your knuckles, something unreadable in his gaze.

And Jungkook hated it.

His hands twitched at his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he watched the way Yoongi held onto you for just a second too long.

And then, to make it worse—to make everything worse—

Min fucking Yoongi opened his mouth.

Yoongi leaned in slightly, voice low but sure, eyes locked onto yours as he said—

“You should come with me.”

Before you could answer, Jungkook was suddenly there.

At your side.

It wasn’t aggressive, not like the countless times before when he had shoved you to the ground, knocked you aside like you were nothing—like you were less than nothing.

This time, it was gentle.

A simple brush of his shoulder against yours as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate motion. Not enough to push you, not enough to hurt. Just enough to touch.

Just enough to get his scent on you.

The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. His scent clung to your skin, seeping into you like a brand, the undeniable mark of an alpha on an omega. And not just any omega—you.

The weak one. The freak. The nobody.

For years, your pheromones had been barely detectable—too diluted, too faint, the consequence of your human mother’s blood. No one had ever tried to scent you before. No one had ever wanted to.

And yet, Jungkook just had.

You stiffened.

His voice was low, controlled, but sharp as a blade.

“She’s already claimed.”

Yoongi turned to Jungkook, his gaze unreadable.

You turned too, but unlike Yoongi, you didn’t hide your confusion.

What the hell had he just said?

What the hell had he just done?

Your pack didn’t want you. Jungkook sure as hell didn’t want you. He and his friends had made that clear for years—mocking you, pushing you down, humiliating you. Reminding you at every turn that you were beneath them, an omega barely worth acknowledging. They had treated you like a burden since the day you were born.

And yet, the moment someone—anyone—saw you, Jungkook took it away.

You could almost laugh.

Not because you actually found this funny, but because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? It wasn’t like you had planned to pack your things and leave.

No, you were sure that they would’ve already had your things packed for you.

But now? Now you weren’t even allowed this?

Jungkook wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked onto Yoongi, his expression calm—too calm. Like steel pulled so tight it was moments away from snapping.

“Claimed?” Yoongi’s voice was slow, skeptical.

His gaze flickered from you to Jungkook, sharp with something dangerous. “That’s funny,” he said lightly. “Because for someone who’s supposedly claimed, she looks just as confused as I am.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

His jaw was locked tight, his entire body radiating something just barely restrained.

Jimin, still at his side, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Hah. Well, she’s not as worthless as we thought.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward him so fast Jimin actually stepped back. But before anyone could challenge him further, a new voice cut through the tension.

Namjoon.

From the other side of the ring, the beta’s alpha—Yoongi’s alpha—had been watching. And now, the moment Jungkook spoke those words, he stepped forward.

Jungkook did not look at him.

But Namjoon looked at Jungkook, hard.

“You don’t get to throw that word around lightly, Jeon,” Namjoon said. His voice was even, calm—but beneath it heavy with authority, there was a weight. A warning. “She isn’t claimed. And if you’re saying otherwise now, you better have a damn good reason.”

Jungkook’s muscles coiled beneath his skin.

You could almost feel the conflict raging inside him. He was trapped. If he admitted the truth—that he had never given you a second thought before today—then you would have the right to leave.

To leave him.

To go to Yoongi.

And that, apparently, was something Jungkook was unwilling to let happen. His hand found your wrist. A grip on your wrist, tight, possessive.

Jungkook still didn’t acknowledge Namjoon.

“We’re done here,” Jungkook bit out, finally breaking his silence. “She needs her wounds checked.”

“Come on,” he muttered, already pulling you away. Already making the choice for you.

You tried to yank your arm back. “What the—?”

“Your wounds,” Jungkook cut you off, voice flat. “I’m checking them.”

You fought him.

Not outright—you weren’t that reckless. But you resisted.

Jungkook’s grip was tight around your wrist as he dragged you through the festival grounds, his body tense, his pace relentless. You pulled back, twisting your arm, trying to slip free without making a scene.

But his hold didn’t budge.

Not once.

Your breath came ragged, your body protesting every movement. The fight with Yoongi had left you battered—your lip was swelling, the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. You could feel it—warm and sticky—dripping down your cheek from somewhere near your temple. Every step made your ribs ache, your knuckles screamed, and still, Jungkook pulled you forward, unyielding.

You didn’t speak.

The medical tent loomed ahead, tucked at the edge of the festival grounds. When Jungkook reached it, he finally stopped, releasing your wrist with a sharp exhale.

For a moment, you considered questioning him.

But then you saw his face—his expression sharp, his gaze hard, his whole body radiating a quiet, dangerous frustration. And suddenly, your words caught in your throat.

Your whole body hurt. You didn’t want a confrontation.

So you stayed silent.

But Jungkook wasn’t.

“You went against my order.”

His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger behind it.

“You were supposed to fight in your wolf form.”

You blinked.

For a second, you thought you had misheard.

Of all things—was this what he was pissed about? Not that you had won, not that you had shown a strength none of them ever thought you possessed, not that another pack’s beta had seen value in you and openly invited you to leave—but that you had disobeyed? Really?!

A humorless chuckle left your lips.

Your shoulders shook with the force of it, your lungs burning. Your hands moved before you could think—pushing your hair out of your face. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through your battered knuckles, and you winced.

But the movement disturbed the air.

And with it, your scent.

Jungkook froze.

He hadn’t meant to inhale, hadn’t meant to care—but he did. It was barely there—soft, subdued, almost fragile. Not like the other omegas—not thick with honeyed warmth, not something that lured or demanded attention, not an instinctual pull. Delicate but lingering. It smelled like something distant, something just out of reach. Like a memory trying to surface—gentle earth after the summer rain, the faintest trace of something cool and sharp, an undertone of metal from the blood that still ran from your wounds.

It had never been enough to catch his attention before. Never been enough to register.

But now, with your sweat thick in the air, with your blood mixed into it, he could smell it.

Under his scent.

Under Min Yoongi’s scent.

It was gentle. It was inviting. It was meant to protect. And it made his head spin. Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His stomach turned. Had he really never noticed before?

Or had he noticed—but never associated it with you?

Jungkook swallowed hard, shifted where he stood, suddenly restless. He hated this.

Hated that he could still smell Yoongi on you. Hated that Yoongi had touched you, that his scent had settled into your skin, that he had smiled at you like you were something worth looking at, something worth keeping. Hated how he had to fight the instinct to pull you closer. Hated how he had to stop himself from brushing against you again, grounding you in his scent until nothing else—no other pack, no other alpha—could ever stake a claim on you.

Jungkook shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake something loose, but it didn’t help.

You didn’t even look at him.

Instead, you were staring at the ground, lips parted slightly, split, breathing still labored from the fight. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, but steady.

“…I’m sorry for disobeying.”

Jungkook’s fists clenched. The words were soft, too soft.

You weren’t trembling, you weren’t crying, you weren’t begging—but somehow, this felt worse.

You straightened your posture, shoulders squared despite the obvious pain it caused you. Your voice didn’t waver.

“I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit, alpha,” you continued, “but I thought… I thought a win would be more beneficial for the pack.”

Jungkook just stared.

His stomach turned again.

You weren’t wrong. A win was beneficial. Even he had to admit that you had fought well—fought harder than anyone had ever expected.

And yet, here you were. Apologizing.

Not for failing. For not being weak.

Something twisted deep in Jungkook’s chest, an unfamiliar kind of discomfort. Because they had set you up for failure. But you went anyway.

And how had they repaid your devotion for your pack?

By letting you bleed alone.

By not even coming to your side when you won for them.

His stomach twisted, the weight of it all sinking in.

But then—he saw your eyes. The way you weren’t really looking at him at all.

That distant look. That lingering pain. That longing.

Like you were already thinking about something else.

Someone else.

You were already calculating your next steps, weren’t you?

Taking your punishment, enduring whatever he threw your way and then—what?

Maybe you’d go to Namjoon. He had seemed open to the idea of taking you in. Maybe you’d go to Yoongi. He had invited you. Maybe—for the first time in your life—you could be wanted somewhere.

And why not?

Jungkook understood why Yoongi had done it, what had made him say those words so openly—but the thought of you considering it made Jungkook’s hands curl into fists. Now that he got a whiff of you he didn’t want to lose it.

And you were considering it.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

He felt like an absolute fucking asshole.

His jaw locked. His shoulders stiffened.

He could force you to stay.

He was Alpha. His word was law. You were part of his pack.

He could put his claim on you by force—not Yoongi, not Namjoon, not another soul in this fucking festival—would ever dare question it.

But for once… he didn’t want to make it worse for you.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to make you stop looking so—like that.

That look in your eyes, that quiet, tired sadness, that distant acceptance that told him you had already started imagining your life somewhere else. Somewhere away from him.

And fuck, he hated it.

He hated that he felt anything about it at all.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel this tight, aching something settle in his chest when you stood there, avoiding his gaze, looking so fucking alone.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, body taut with something too tangled to name. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get why his pulse was loud in his ears, why his throat felt tight, why he cared.

Then, without thinking—he stepped closer.

Not aggressive, not like before. Not like he was trying to intimidate you. But something else. Something… unsure. Something unfamiliar.

Something hesitant.

For a split second, his body tensed. But then you shifted—just slightly, not a step back, not a step closer. And it hit him all over again. Yoongi’s scent on you.

Jungkook didn’t like that.

Didn’t like that Yoongi’s scent had been there first. Didn’t like that he hadn’t been.

So he did what his instincts told him to.

Slowly, carefully—he lifted a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he touched you.

Not rough. Not like the harsh, punishing grips from before.

Gentle.

Warm fingers brushing over your wrist before trailing up, barely there, a question more than a touch.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t move away, when you only exhaled a slow, uncertain breath in confusion—he closed the distance.

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a firm, solid embrace.

Your body stiffened immediately, breath catching, and for a moment, he thought you might shove him away. But then—slowly, cautiously—you exhaled, your muscles gradually unwinding as you settled against him.

Jungkook barely resisted the urge to bury his face against your neck.

To inhale deeply, to mark you with nothing but himself.

Instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, protective, grounding.

Claiming.

It wasn’t the same as scenting you. But it was something.

Something that said—stay.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf approached, her scent warm and neutral, a balm against the suffocating weight of Jungkook’s presence. You barely heard what she was saying, barely registered the way she reached for your arm, gently guiding you deeper into the tent.

You were just relieved to be away from him.

Jungkook and his friends had spent years tearing you down, humiliating you, making sure you knew exactly where you stood. So why? Why had he hugged you, brushed his scent onto you twice in such a short amount of time?

It made no sense.

And you were too exhausted to try and make sense of it now.

Behind you, footsteps entered the tent. Yoongi. He also came to the medical tent.

He looked like shit. Bruised and bloody, his lower lip split from where your knuckles had caught him. His cheekbone was swollen, and his dark eyes flicked toward you as he exhaled, sinking onto a nearby cot.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “You sure know how to land a punch.”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, wincing as the healer inspected your lip as she moved you along. The sting barely registered. Your body was too numb, too exhausted.

Your mind reeled as you stepped into another part of the tent, the fabric shifting behind you, cutting off the weight of Jungkook’s gaze. You weren’t naive enough to think that this moment of peace would last—Jungkook wasn’t one to let things go. His scent was still clinging to your skin.

You shot a final glance over your shoulder that made you lock eyes with Yoongi. Yoongi eyes linger on you, posture relaxed despite the open wound on his brow still sluggishly bleeding, offering you a parting nod before you disappeared from his sight.

Jungkook tensed at that, his entire body coiling like a spring. But he said nothing, only watching as you left.

For now, you could breathe.

Meanwhile, the air inside the tent was thick enough with hostility to chock on.

Jungkook stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders drawn tight. He had been tense ever since the nurse got you, since Yoongi had stepped into the tent. Namjoon stood beside him, expression unreadable, while Jimin —fucking Jimin—, ever the mood-breaker, let out a scoff and shot Yoongi a smirk.

"Man, I still can't believe it," he snickered. "You really lost to an omega? That’s embarrassing."

Yoongi didn’t even blink.

"If that omega had been fighting you, your sorry ass would have lost too," he shot back easily, not even dignifying Jimin with a glance

Jungkook stiffened.

Jimin wasn’t expecting that answer.

He rolled his eyes, trying to recover. "Yeah, sure—”

Yoongi didn’t take the bait. Instead, the beta smirked, his gaze sharp as he glanced toward Jimin.

"You can suck a dick, man," Yoongi interrupted lazily, his tone bordering on bored. "If you really think that fight was a joke, then you're a bigger dumbass than I thought."

Jimin's expression darkened.

Jungkook's fingers twitched.

Then, Yoongis tone dropped, words hitting their mark like a well-placed strike. “If you’re too stupid to realize how fucking amazing she is, then she’s wasted in your pack.”

Jungkook froze. The words rang out like a challenge. Because for some reason, Yoongi defending you like that pissed him off more than Jimin mocking you.

Much more.

Too much.

Jimin’s expression twitched, irritation flashing in his eyes, but Jungkook barely registered it. His mind was still repeating the last thing Yoongi had said.

She’s wasted in your pack.

Something deep inside him—something primal—recoiled at the thought.

Yoongi had been watching you the entire fight, had taken every single one of your hits and still looked like he would’ve gone another round with you just for the thrill of it.

And then he had the fucking nerve to tell you to come with him.

No.

Jungkook couldn’t let that happen. Because there was something gnawing at the edges of his mind—a realization that he refused to let fully form.

He needed to put Yoongi in his place.

To tell him to back the fuck off.

To stay away from his omega—

Fuck.

The thought struck like a whip, burning through his mind like fire.

Mine.

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

He hadn’t meant to think that.

Hadn’t meant to let it form.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t join in on Jimin’s mockery.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

Yoongi was right.

You were too strong to be treated the way you were.

And yet.

Yet, he was standing here, fists curled at his sides, listening to someone else talk about you, see you, acknowledge you. Someone who wasn’t him.

And it fucking bothered him.

Namjoon, standing beside him, must have sensed the shift. His gaze flicked toward Jungkook, voice even. “Don’t start a fight.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. Forced himself to relax his stance.

Namjoon was right. And yet.

As he stood there, chest tight, body rigid, waiting for you to return, he couldn’t shake one singular, suffocating thought.

You were considering leaving.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf had been kind—efficient but distant, the way pack healers usually were when tending to someone who wasn’t truly their own. She patched you up, wrapped your bruised ribs, cleaned the gash on your lip, and handed you a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

“You can wash up before you go,” she had said, then excused herself.

You should have been relieved to have a moment alone, but as you ran the damp cloth over your skin, wiping away the grime of sweat and blood, you hesitated.

The scent.

Yoongi’s scent still clung to you from earlier, faint but present, threaded into the fabric of your torn clothes. But the one that lingered strongest was Jungkook’s.

It had settled on your skin like a second layer, a stark contrast to how he had always treated you. His scent was warm, rich, something inherently dominant and grounding—comforting, even.

And that was the problem.

You had never thought of Jungkook as comforting.

The scent didn’t belong on you. He had no right to leave it there, and yet he had—twice.

Huffing, you pressed the cloth to your neck and scrubbed it away.

Even though a part of you—a tiny, traitorous part of you—had liked it.

But you weren’t naive. You didn’t understand why he had done it, and you weren’t about to let yourself read into something that wasn’t real.

As the last traces of him faded from your skin, you took a breath, forcing down the unease curling in your stomach. You were bandaged and clean. Ready to go.

Except…

You weren’t ready to step back into that tent.

Not with him. Not with Yoongi. Not with Namjoon, whose invitation still hung in the air, the one you weren’t sure you’d refuse.

So you did the only thing you could.

You slipped away.

Before leaving, you stopped by the healer. “Please let Alpha Namjoon and his Beta know that I’m grateful for the invitation. I’ll make a decision soon.”

And then, before the suffocating weight of that tent could pull you back in—you disappeared into the festival night.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The moment the healer returned to the tent to take care of Yoongi and relayed your message, Jungkook stopped breathing. Everything inside him went still, frozen in the suffocating grip of one brutal, searing thought.

You were considering leaving.

His ears rang. His pulse pounded against his ribs, his veins, his skull—too loud, too hot.

And then—white-hot rage.

The fuck—you slipped away?!

The fuck you would tell some other fucking beta that you were considering his offer?!

Something deep inside him snapped, cracked open, left him bare and fucking raw. His body locked up, every instinct screaming at him to move, to find you, drag you back, remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

To him.

It shouldn’t have been true. But it was.

His omega.

His fucking omega.

Not Yoongi’s. Not Namjoon’s. Not anyone else’s.

His.

Across from him, Yoongi grinned—grinned, like he already had you.

If it wouldn’t provoke war with Namjoon’s pack, he would have put the smug bastard down right then and there.

Beside him, Namjoon must have sensed it—the impending explosion—because his voice was a sharp, cutting warning.

“Jeon.”

His head snapped toward the alpha, feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Start.”

His breath was harsh, uneven. He forced his body still, forced himself to stay put, forced himself to swallow down the hurricane raging inside him.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He needed to get away from Yoongi’s fucking stare,

Jungkook moved before he could stop himself, shoving past the tent’s threshold, out into the cool night air. The night air was cold against Jungkook’s skin, but he barely felt it. The weight in his chest—the suffocating, clawing sensation pressing against his ribs—was all he could focus on. His lungs burned from how hard he was breathing, his body rigid with tension as his mind reeled over the situation.

You were gone.

You’d slipped away.

And Jungkook was unraveling.

It wasn’t just that you’d walked off. It wasn’t just that you had managed to leave without him noticing. It was that you had done so after telling another beta—not him—but fucking Yoongi that you were considering the invitation. Leaving. The word lodged itself inside his chest like a knife twisting between his ribs, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to fucking stand still and not go feral with the need to find you.

Jungkook's fingers curled into fists at his sides. His instincts clawed at him, screamed at him to hunt you down, track you, drag you back where you belonged. He didn’t even know what that meant anymore—all he knew was that the idea of you slipping further from his grasp was driving him to the brink of madness.

And then—

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jimin’s voice cut through the thick haze of rage flooding Jungkook’s system, sharp and irritated.

Jungkook’s head snapped to the side, eyes locking onto Jimin with a barely restrained snarl curling in his throat. Jimin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a scoff on his lips, looking at him like he was some kind of deranged idiot.

“Seriously, why the fuck do you even care so much?” Jimin asked, incredulous. His gaze burned into Jungkook like he was trying to see into his mind, trying to pick apart the tangled mess of emotions that even Jungkook himself couldn’t fully understand. “Sure, she’s not as weak as we thought, but she’s still—”

Still an abnormal omega.

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

The next thing he knew, Jimin was pinned against a tree.

Bark cracked under the force of Jungkook’s grip as he shoved Jimin back, forearm pressing into his throat. A startled grunt left Jimin’s mouth, his hands flying up to grab at Jungkook’s wrist, but he wasn’t struggling. Not yet. He was stunned. His wide eyes stared into Jungkook’s, searching, trying to process the sheer fury he saw there.

Jungkook’s voice was low, guttural, dangerous. “Say that again.”

Jimin blinked. “What—”

“Say that shit again, Jimin.” Jungkook’s fingers curled tighter in the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, his grip unforgiving. “Say she’s ‘abnormal’ one more fucking time.”

The growl that rumbled from Jungkook’s chest was borderline feral. His body trembled with the effort to contain himself, to not let his instincts rip Jimin apart.

Jimin, to his credit, didn’t back down. He let out a breath, his expression shifting from shocked to frustrated. “You act like you hate her half the time,” he bit out, his voice rough from the pressure against his throat. “You—”

“You ever say that shit about her again,” Jungkook breathed, voice guttural, deadly, “and I’ll fucking break your jaw.” The words left Jungkook’s mouth before he even realized he’d spoken them.

Jimin swallowed, but there was no mistaking the disbelief in his scent—disbelief and realization.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Jungkook’s breath was uneven, his heart hammering like war drums in his chest. He didn’t know what the fuck he was saying, what the fuck he was feeling—only that it was true.

He didn’t hate you.

But he had made you think he did—for years.

And that was worse.

Jimin’s gaze flicked over his face, looking for something—understanding, maybe. Clarity. But all he found was frustration. Confusion. Possession. Jungkook finally released his hold, stepping back abruptly. Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing at his throat, his brows drawn in exasperation.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. He turned, his body thrumming with tension, his instincts screaming.

Find her.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

You were impossible to track by scent alone.

Jungkook’s breath came faster, his chest tight with something dangerously close to panic. His mind raced as he moved through the festival grounds, scanning every inch of the crowd, turning over every fucking stone. He checked the food stalls, the bonfires, the gathering circles—but you were nowhere. His frustration mounted with every passing second, the suffocating weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

And then—

He saw you.

At the edge of the festival.

Watching.

His feet halted. His breath hitched.

But he didn’t run to you.

Not yet.

Because, he saw what you were watching.

A small group from your pack—your own pack—laughing together, eating from a food stall, talking and joking and existing without you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you weren’t one of them.

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He only watched you.

Watched the way you lingered on the edges, distant, separate, apart. Watched the way your shoulders slumped just slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves—as if holding yourself together. Watched the way your eyes, usually sharp, usually guarded, turned soft with something somber.

Something that hurt.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt it.

Felt it in a way he had never let himself feel before.

Because deep down, he knew.

You might have been an outcast even without his bullying, but he sure as hell hadn’t helped.

Any chance you might have had at forming bonds with others—with other omegas who could have been open to you, to your differences—he had crushed with him and his friends being so openly against you.

And now, you were considering leaving.

Because you had no place here.

The air left his lungs.

And then—The wind shifted.

He caught your scent.

Subtle, light, but there.

Familiar. Calming. Now that he knew what to look for.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze, the shift in the air. A tension, thick and charged, creeping up your spine like an unseen force tightening its grip around your throat. Your body reacted before your mind even had time to process it, muscles coiling, senses sharpening as if bracing for a fight, a command, a punishment.

And yet, when you turned your head, expecting the familiar sharpness of his scorn, the arrogant sneer that usually curled his lips, what you found instead was something entirely different.

Jungkook was walking toward you, but not like he normally did—not with the sharp, purposeful strides of an alpha ready to corner their prey. His movements were slow, measured, careful. Like he was approaching something that might spook, something fragile that he didn’t want to risk losing.

And then—he raised his hand.

Not to grab you. Not to pull you. Not to force you into submission.

But to hold it palm-out, a silent request.

Stay.

Your stomach twisted, confusion bubbling in your chest as your instincts warred with your logic. This was wrong. This wasn’t how Jungkook acted. He didn’t ask—he took. He didn’t approach with caution—he cornered. And yet, here he was, standing a short distance away, his body visibly tense but his expression void of cruelty.

Your gaze flickered over him warily, taking in the way his nose subtly twitched, the way his brow furrowed just slightly. You knew what he was doing. Smelling the air. Searching for something.

And when he didn’t find it—when his jaw ticked just barely, when his fingers curled the slightest bit before he forced them to relax—you understood.

You had washed off his scent.

The realization sent a strange kind of satisfaction through you. He didn’t look like he like it—not one bit. His scent had been stripped from your skin, erased as if he had never laid claim in the first place. But then, another realization hit just as quickly, one that made something deep inside you twist.

Yoongi’s scent wasn’t there, either.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered over you, assessing, processing. His expression barely shifted, but you knew him well enough by now to see the signs—the small, fleeting flicker of relief in his gaze, the way his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He hated that his scent was missing from you. But at the very least, no one else’s remained either.

You swallowed hard, torn between wanting to question him and simply pretending he wasn’t there at all. You didn’t get the chance to decide before he moved, his body lowering with an ease that felt unnatural for him, for what you were used to.

Jungkook sat beside you.

Not in front of you, not looming over you, not crowding you into submission.

Beside you.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his pack the way you did.

You weren’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that he was sitting next to you without hostility, or the way he wasn’t part of the fun. Just watching the others with you. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t acting like the untouchable alpha you had always known him to be. He was simply watching. Watching them talk, watching them laugh, watching them exist together in a way you never had.

It made something sharp wedge itself inside your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know what to expect.

This entire situation was too strange, too wrong. You weren’t used to being this close to Jungkook without fear. Without waiting for the ridicule, for the belittlement, for the inevitable moment he reminded you just how different you were. How much you didn’t belong.

And yet, the silence stretched. And it never came.

Instead—

“I’m sorry.”

The words were so quiet, so impossibly foreign, that you almost didn’t recognize his voice at first. Your body went rigid. Your breath caught in your throat. Your brain struggled to comprehend.

Jungkook didn’t apologize. Jungkook didn’t admit fault.

And yet, he was sitting here beside you, his gaze still fixed on the pack in front of you, his posture stiff but open. And he had just apologized.

It took a moment for you to understand—to even believe it.

But then, he continued, voice low, rough, edged with something that sounded almost hesitant.

“I misjudged you,” he admitted. His hands curled into loose fists against his thighs before he forced himself to relax them. “You’re not weak. You were just you.” His head tilted just slightly in your direction, eyes searching for yours, but you refused to meet them, your own gaze locked forward, jaw tight. He exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching. “Your scent…” His voice grew quieter. “It’s calming.”

Something inside you twisted.

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Because what the fuck were you supposed to say?

This was the man who had spent years making you feel like nothing. The man who had made sure you never had a place in your own pack, who had crushed any hope of you ever forming connections, who had made you feel like you were something to be ridiculed, avoided, dismissed.

And now, he was telling you he had been wrong.

That he was sorry.

That your scent—the very thing they had used to demean you, to remind you of how you didn’t belong—had calmed him.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your hands clenched against your lap, your chest tight with too many emotions, too much history, too much fucking pain.

The silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating.

Jungkook waited.

For an answer. A reaction. Anything.

The silence between you stretched impossibly long, thick with something neither of you could name. Jungkook had never been a patient man, but for once, he did not demand, did not press, did not try to force an answer from you. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t answer him at all—maybe a part of him feared you wouldn’t. And yet, even if you had chosen silence, he wouldn’t have left your side.

But then—you spoke.

Your voice was quiet, slow, careful. Not hesitant, not weak—measured.

“I am an omega,” you said, your lips parting just slightly before you pressed them together again, licking them as if trying to decide whether or not to keep speaking. You weren’t looking at him. Wouldn’t dare look at him. Not Jeon Jungkook. Not the alpha, not the son of your pack’s leader.

Not the one who, with his friends, had made sure your life had been nothing short of awful.

Not the one who had scented you today—twice.

Not the one who had apologized.

And yet, despite the fact that you refused to meet his gaze, you didn’t stop talking.

“Even unpure, I am still an omega,” you continued, the weight of those words pressing against your tongue, curling around your ribs. “I am unwanted in my own pack. Unclaimed. But I was invited.” You exhaled slowly, staring at the people in front of you, at the way they laughed, how they leaned into each other with ease. How they had everything you didn’t.

How they had never once thought to include you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out anyway.

“I was invited to join Yoongi,” you said, nodding toward them, toward everything you could have. Toward everything Jungkook had helped make sure you could never have here. “I could finally have something like this.”

Jungkook followed your gaze, watched the pack through your eyes, saw what you saw. Saw what you had been missing for so long.

And then, you turned to him.

For the first time since this conversation started, you finally looked at him.

“Why would you apologize now, Jungkook?” The words were soft, but sharp, piercing straight through him. “Can’t you just… let me go?”

Jungkook felt his lungs seize, felt something inside him coil so tight it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Because—fuck, he understood. He understood exactly what you meant, exactly what you wanted. He understood the words you were saying, the quiet plea hidden underneath them. And at the same time, he didn’t.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you go.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists against his thighs as something ugly, something primal, twisted inside him at the mere thought of you leaving, of you running to another pack, of you going to him.

The image of Yoongi’s hand gripping your wrist, of his scent lingering on your skin, of his invitation—his fucking offer—wrapped around Jungkook’s ribs like barbed wire, sinking deep, tearing at his insides, making his vision darken at the edges.

He hated it.

Hated the idea of you walking away. Hated the thought of another pack looking at you, claiming you, seeing what he had been too fucking blind to see. And for the first time, he let himself acknowledge the thought that had been clawing at the edges of his mind, the one he had been too fucking scared to face.

What if you weren’t just his omega?

What if you were—fuck.

What if you were his mate?

And he had ruined it before it could even begin?

A slow, shaky breath left his lips, his fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He turned to you, and when you finally met his gaze, his dark eyes were filled with something heavy, something raw—something real.

Vulnerability.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “I can’t let you go.”

You didn’t interrupt him.

You listened.

And Jungkook realized—you were giving him something he had never given you.

A chance.

A chance to explain. A chance to fix it.

A chance he didn’t fucking deserve.

Jungkook had never struggled with words before. He had never needed to. He was an alpha, the future leader of his pack—his presence alone commanded obedience.

But as he looked at you now, sitting stiff and guarded, waiting for him to say something worth listening to—for once, words failed him.

He didn’t know where to start.

Did he start with the moment he really saw you? The moment when the scent he had ignored for so long finally reached him properly, made his head spin?

The moment when Yoongi’s bloodied knuckles had slammed into your face, when you had spit blood onto the ground and still stood your ground?

The moment he realized that—fuck—you weren’t weak, weren’t something lesser, weren’t something meant to be mocked or scorned?

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook finally said, his voice lower than before, rougher. He wasn’t looking at you. Couldn’t. Not when he felt this exposed. This bare.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it. To really see you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I don’t think I ever wanted to see you,” he admitted, voice raw. “Not really. I told myself you were lesser. That you were different. That the way the others treated you was just—how things were supposed to be. I never questioned it. Never questioned myself.”

He hesitated, inhaling deeply, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “But when you fought—when you stood your ground—I realized I had never actually looked at you. Never tried to understand. And that—” his jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides. “That was my fucking mistake.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his expression tightening with something close to frustration. Not with you—with himself.

Jungkook had spent years pushing you aside, treating you like something beneath him, something unworthy of his attention. Now he couldn’t ignore you.

Would never ignore you again.

He inhaled, your scent reaching him, steadying something inside him. The realization had been clawing at his insides since the moment he finally noticed you, since he finally let himself notice you. And still, it was terrifying to say out loud.

Jungkook hesitated. Then—

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, his eyes flickering across your face, searching for something he couldn’t name. “I don’t know if I—if we—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I just know that I can’t let you go.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, getting closer—not to crowd you, not to intimidate, but because he needed to.

“Maybe,” he said carefully, slowly, “if things had been different—if I had been different—I would have figured it out sooner.”

Your brows furrowed. “Figured what out?”

He swallowed. Hesitated—

“I could see it,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you didn’t recognize. “I could, can see myself being your mate.”

Silence.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared at him, stunned, shocked, unsure whether to laugh or cry or push him away.

Jungkook… wanted to be your mate?

Jungkook, the alpha who had spent years making sure you knew your place, now wanted you?

The idea made your head spin.

Your scent spiked with uncertainty, and Jungkook felt it, saw it in the way you shifted, in the way you didn’t reach for him, didn’t lean closer despite the way his body was pulling toward yours.

But you didn’t reject him either.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, exhaling harshly, as if trying to settle something inside himself. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me.” His fists clenched at his sides, his whole body tense. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

You didn’t know what to say.

And Jungkook, for the first time in his life, looked at you and realized—he was afraid.

Afraid that he had ruined this before it had ever begun.

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, to grab your wrist and drag you closer, to scent you again. He wanted to. Fuck, he needed to. It wasn’t right, you walking around without his scent, without something that marked you as his. If someone else came near you, if someone tried to—

No.

He wouldn’t force it-you.

Not this time.

Not until you wanted him to.

Jungkook swallowed down the instinct, forcing himself to push past it. He got up, took a step back instead, motioning toward the festival.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated.

Jungkook didn’t blame you.

But after a moment, you moved.

You fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking as you walked deeper into the festival. Music and laughter filled the air, scents of grilled meat and spiced drinks curling into your senses. The sounds of packmates laughing, bonding made something tighten in your chest, a dull ache you had long since grown used to.

Jungkook saw the way you glanced toward a small food stall, the brief flicker of interest before you shut it down.

It was so natural, so ingrained in you to deny yourself.

Before you could pull away, before you could convince yourself you didn’t belong here, Jungkook was already moving. He pulled you toward the stall, barely giving you time to react. The vendor greeted him with a knowing smirk, already preparing something without needing to be asked.

Jungkook glanced at you, watching your reaction carefully.

"You haven’t eaten, have you?"

You tensed but said nothing. You didn’t want to admit it.

Jungkook scoffed, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. The touch was warm, careful. Not rough, not demanding. Just—grounding. Before you could argue, the vendor handed Jungkook two portions, and he pressed one into your hands, giving you no choice but to take it. You stared down at it, unsure of how to respond. Jungkook didn’t push. He just started eating his own, as if this was normal. As if it had always been this easy.

The food felt heavy in your hands.

Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant.

Jungkook had never done this before. Had never even come close. No mockery, no sharp-edged words hidden behind smirks, no underhanded glances exchanged with his friends at your expense. There was no cruelty, no trick lurking beneath the surface, waiting to snap around your throat the moment you let your guard down.

And yet—you hesitated.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Because this—this warmth, this softness, this small moment of normalcy—couldn’t be real.

For years, Jungkook had seen to it personally, had mocked and humiliated you whenever the opportunity arose. Why would he stop now? Why would he suddenly be so… kind? Did he really want you as a mate? Were you really meant for him?

It was easier—safer—to assume this was another joke. Some elaborate, twisted game where he played nice just to see if he could break you in a different way. But when you looked at him, at the way he just stood there, eating his food like this was something he had done a thousand times before, you couldn’t see it. There was no glint of amusement in his eyes, no carefully hidden malice behind his actions.

He wasn’t laughing at you.

And that made something uneasy twist in your stomach.

Because it meant you wanted to believe him.

And you didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jungkook nudged your shoulder lightly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

“You fought. You should eat,” he said simply. His tone was different—calmer, like this was just an obvious fact. “That’s what the others do, isn’t it? They celebrate. They enjoy the festival. You should too.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t really do that,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on the food in your hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I don’t really… have someone to do that with.”

Jungkook stilled.

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t say anything. But you felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze as it burned into you, the tension that coiled so tight it was suffocating. His throat bobbed, a muscle in his jaw clenching as something dark flickered across his face.

Because this—this was his fault.

He had done this to you.

Maybe not alone, but he had made sure you were alone, had pushed you so far to the edges of this pack that there was no place left for you. And now—now, he hated it.

Hated that you looked at your own pack with longing, with that quiet, resigned acceptance of your isolation. Hated that you had been forced to convince yourself you didn’t want something as simple as friendship.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders tight with the urge to reach for you, to pull you closer, to—

Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice coming out lower, rougher.

“Then celebrate with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers tightening around the food in your hands.

Jungkook must have sensed the shift in the air—or maybe, for once, he was just paying attention.

Because instead of letting the weight of your words settle between you, heavy and suffocating, he did something unexpected. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as if physically shaking off the tension. Then, with a pointed tilt of his head, he motioned toward the festival stalls ahead.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, easier. “Let’s do something fun.”

You hesitated, still off-balance from the strange, unfamiliar warmth of the moment before, but Jungkook didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed your wrist—not hard, not demanding, just firm. Certain. And before you could think to pull away, he was already leading you toward the stalls.

The air around you shifted as he walked, the tension from before unraveling with each step. The festival’s bright lanterns cast a warm glow over everything, their light flickering against the deep hues of the night sky. Packmates bustled around, laughter and cheers blending into the rhythmic hum of music. It should have felt suffocating, overwhelming even, but somehow, Jungkook made it lighter.

Like you could actually breathe.

He stopped in front of a game stall—a simple one, lined with targets and darts, where the prizes ranged from cheap trinkets to extravagant stuffed animals far too big for anyone to reasonably carry around. Jungkook crossed his arms over his broad chest, surveying the prizes with an exaggerated air of contemplation before glancing at you.

“So,” he drawled, his tone dipping into something playfully arrogant, “what should I win my omega?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook must have heard it too, because the moment the words left his mouth, his entire body went rigid. His eyes widened a fraction, and then he fucking blushed. A pink hue crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks, his usual confidence cracking just enough for the moment to hang between you, raw and unguarded.

You stared at him, stunned.

Not because of the claim—no, that wasn’t what shocked you the most. It was the way he reacted to it. The way it had slipped out so naturally, so thoughtlessly, like it was something he had already accepted, something that was already settled in his mind.

Like it was something he wanted.

Your stomach twisted.

It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You looked away, fixing your gaze on the prizes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Whatever’s fine,” you muttered, trying to evade the weight of the moment. Trying to evade the mere thought of being his.

Jungkook nodded stiffly, the blush still lingering on his face. But internally—internally, his mind was a fucking mess.

Because "whatever" wasn’t fine.

Not when it came to you.

No, he wanted to get you the best fucking prize there was. The biggest, the best, the one that would make everyone look twice and know exactly who you belonged to. Because he had already decided—whether you realized it or not—you were someone he definitely wanted as his mate. And that meant you deserved the best.

His lips curled into a grin, the usual cocky tilt of his smirk returning as he grabbed the darts, rolling one between his fingers before glancing at you.

And for the first time ever, your heart fluttered.

Just a little.

The realization made your stomach flip. Made your breath catch in your throat.

And then—the spell shattered.

“Hey, look at this,” a voice sneered from behind you.

You stiffened immediately. Too immediately.

Jungkook’s grin fell the second he saw your shoulders go rigid, the way your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeves. The way you prepared yourself.

He turned, eyes narrowing at the approaching group—packmates, his packmates. And the moment they saw him standing beside you, standing with you, their expressions twisted into something ugly.

“Oh, come on, Jungkook,” one of them laughed, clapping a hand against his shoulder. “Really? You’re making it too easy.”

Another chuckled, arms crossing as he eyed you with an amused smirk. “What, is this your new way of keeping her in line? Pretend to be nice, get her hopes up, then drop her harder than before?”

Jungkook’s blood turned to ice.

He barely registered the words—all he saw was you.

The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers curled tighter. The way your body tensed as if bracing for impact, as if you had already accepted their mockery before it had even fully left their mouths, as if you believed them.

Like you had done this a hundred times before.

And Jungkook—hated it.

Hated the way you didn’t fight back, hated the way you still defaulted to this, to expecting it. Hated that you were more than capable of wiping the fucking floor with half of them but you still—still—

Instinct took over.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Jungkook moved.

A step forward—not away from you, but in front of you.

The shift was immediate.

The laughter faltered. The sneers wavered. They weren’t expecting that.

Because never—not once—had Jeon Jungkook ever placed himself between you and them.

The air turned thick, charged with something heavy, something dangerous.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just stared.

And for the first time, his packmates hesitated.

Because this wasn’t the Jungkook they knew.

The Jungkook they knew laughed at you, mocked you, threw you to the wolves because it was fun, because it was easy. This Jungkook wasn’t laughing.

This Jungkook was looking at them like he was one second away from tearing their fucking throats out. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squared, his presence radiating something that was no longer just posturing—it was a warning.

And still—still, he hated that it had taken him this long to feel this way.

Hated that only now did the need to protect you consume him.

That only now, when it might already be too late, did he realize you had always been worth protecting.

The packmates who had been so quick to sneer, so confident in their mockery, suddenly found themselves hesitating, uncertain. Their eyes flickered between Jungkook and you, as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing—as if they couldn’t comprehend the sudden change in him.

Jungkook could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, trying to fit this moment into the narrative they had always believed. Because in their eyes, there was no way—no fucking way—that this was real. That Jeon Jungkook, their golden boy, their alpha, was actually standing between them and you.

He could feel their confusion, their disbelief, thick in the air between them. And then—the moment of hesitation broke.

One of them scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, Jungkook. We get it.”

Another smirked, though there was a flicker of unease in his expression. “Yeah. You had us for a second.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, his muscles coiling tight.

They didn’t get it.

And when they turned to each other, exchanging knowing looks, their laughter starting up again—as if this was all just some elaborate new joke at your expense—something inside Jungkook snapped.

His voice came out low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m joking?”

The laughter stopped.

Jungkook took a slow, deliberate step forward, his expression dark, his presence suddenly suffocating. The easy confidence that usually radiated from him was gone—this was something else entirely. Something cold, something sharp, something that carried weight.

“You think this is me fucking around?” His voice was quiet, but it carried, slicing through the air like a blade. “That this is just some new way to mess with her?”

No one answered.

Jungkook let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “You don’t get to laugh.” His gaze cut through them.

One of them shuffled uncomfortably, but before they could speak, Jungkook cut them off.

“I mean it,” he said, voice like stone. “You don’t fucking laugh at her again. You don’t talk down to her. You don’t fucking touch her.”

A pause.

“You do, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. And then—one by one, they backed down.

Jungkook didn’t move until they turned, murmuring amongst themselves as they walked away, their laughter now uneasy, their jokes less certain. He heard the words slip between them, muttered under their breath—“This is just Jungkook’s new game. Give it a few days.”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

He wanted to tear the thought from their skulls. Wanted to shake them until they understood—until they saw what he saw, felt what he felt.

But it was too late.

And as he turned back to you—the shift hit him like a blow to the chest.

You were staring at him, your body stiff, your expression carefully blank. But it wasn’t the usual guarded neutrality you wore around the pack.

This was different.

This was wary. This was uncertain.

Jungkook felt his stomach drop.

No.

He had felt it before—just for a second. That fragile, delicate moment when you had started to let your guard down, when you had begun to step into something lighter with him, something that almost—almost—felt safe.

And now, just like that, it was gone.

His throat bobbed as he tried to figure out what to say, how to fix this, how to reach you again.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, quieter. “Are you—”

“Why did you do that?”

Your voice cut through him—not angry, not accusing. Just... uncertain.

Jungkook hesitated. He could still feel their words clinging to the air, their doubts sinking into the space between you. This is just Jungkook’s new game.

Fuck.

How could he make you believe him when even his own packmates didn’t?

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet your gaze, to hold it steady despite the way his chest ached.

“Because they were wrong,” he said simply. “About you. About me.”

You inhaled sharply, but you didn’t look away.

Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to do something—anything—to ease the wariness in your eyes. Instead, he took a slow breath, forcing himself to think. To find something, anything, that could break the tension, that could pull you back from whatever edge you were teetering on.

Then, suddenly—he knew.

A spark of something familiar flickered in his chest, and he let out a breath, forcing a small, lopsided grin.

“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the game stall behind him. “I still owe you a prize, don’t I?”

Your brows furrowed. “Jungkook—”

“Let me win you something,” he interrupted, stepping closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to ground. “It’s only fair, after all.”

You hesitated.

And for a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But then—slowly, cautiously—you nodded.

Jungkook’s chest loosened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

But for now—for this moment—it was something.

For the next two hours, Jungkook did everything he could to make you feel comfortable.

He made it his personal mission, dragging you from stall to stall, challenging you to games he was far too skilled at—only to pretend he wasn’t, just to see the flicker of determination in your eyes as you tried to best him. He let you win once, and when you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, accusing him of letting you, he only smirked and shrugged.

(He had let you win. Of course, he had. But he wouldn’t admit it, because he liked the way it made you scoff and roll your eyes, the way it made you—just for a second—drop your guard.)

He won you prizes. Too many. More than you could carry. Every time you tried to refuse, he would only smirk, placing them in your arms with an ease that left you grumbling under your breath.

And he got you food—again.

The first time, you didn’t protest. The second time, you huffed but accepted. The third time, you stared at him, bewildered.

“Jungkook.”

His grin was all too pleased as he handed you something sweet, a smug glint in his eyes. “Eat.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I’ll explode.”

A beat of silence. Then—the quietest huff of laughter.

It was barely there. So small, so fleeting.

But it was real.

Jungkook’s breath caught, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might betray him. Because fuck, he wanted to hear nothing else. He wanted to hear you laugh again. And again. And again.

His grin softened into something else entirely, something genuine. Something he didn’t think he had ever shown you before. “Then I guess I’ll have to carry you home when you do.”

You scoffed, nudging his shoulder lightly—but you took the food.

Jungkook ached at how easy this felt.

For the first time, he felt like he was on solid ground with you.

His moment shattered the second Yoongi appeared.

It was subtle at first—just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, a figure leaning against one of the wooden stalls. Arms crossed, gaze steady, watching.

But Jungkook felt it the instant you tensed.

The warmth between you both—the fragile, tentative peace he had spent the past two hours carefully piecing together—vanished. The soft laughter, the playful bickering, the easy moments he had crafted, gone in an instant.

Jungkook watched—seething, helpless—as you looked at Yoongi and smiled.

Not forced. Not polite. Real.

A smile you hadn’t once given him.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Yoongi pushed off the stall, moving toward you with a familiar ease that made Jungkook’s stomach twist. He walked like he belonged at your side, like he had the right to step into your space without hesitation.

Jungkook had spent the last few hours carefully earning every inch closer to you. Yoongi didn’t have to.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Yoongi said, his voice smooth, measured.

Jungkook bristled.

Because Yoongi was looking at the prizes Jungkook had won you. At the way you were carrying more than you could possibly hold, arms full of his gifts, his offerings, his proof that he was trying, that he was changing, that he was someone you could trust.

But Yoongi—Yoongi was amused.

Like it was a joke.

Like Jungkook was a joke.

“I suppose I am,” you replied, adjusting the weight of the prizes in your arms.

Jungkook clenched his fists.

He wanted you to say it was because of him.

And then—Yoongi touched you.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t nothing.

It was deliberate, under the pretense of checking your injuries.

His fingers brushed against the inside of your wrist, barely there, light but firm, enough to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. Enough for his scent to cling.

Jungkook’s vision blurred. His body tensed, instincts screaming, but he couldn’t react. Not yet. Not when you didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

But Jungkook knew better.

Yoongi’s fingertips lingered too long. His eyes flickered too knowingly. And when he spoke—when he murmured, “I thought only you had left a mark on me, but my ribs still hurt with every breath I take”—it was too much.

Jungkook barely contained his growl.

Then, you chuckled.

You chuckled.

Jungkook’s nails bit into his palms.

“You did get a few good punches in,” you admitted, casual, easy, like it didn’t kill Jungkook to see you so comfortable with him. “I’ll feel them for a while.”

Jungkook wanted to rip Yoongi’s hand off of you.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

Yoongi hummed, finally releasing your wrist—but the damage was done.

His scent clung to you now. Not just faintly, not just a passing trace—it was fresh. Strong.

And you—you didn’t even notice.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still.

To not grab your wrist, drag you away, wipe the smell off you himself.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the back of his jaw aching from the tension he held.

He could feel his wolf pacing, snarl curling at the edges of his mind, demanding—fix it. Remove it. Make it right.

Yoongi didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“Have you thought about what I said?” Yoongi asked, his voice quieter now. More serious.

Jungkook’s chest tightened painfully.

Because he knew exactly what Yoongi was asking.

Yoongi had asked you to leave.

To come with him. To his pack. To his home.

And now—now he wanted your answer.

Jungkook forced himself to look away, to breathe, to keep his hands at his sides and not tear you away from Yoongi and demand that you never fucking leave.

“I want to wait until morning.”

Yoongi’s head tilted slightly, gaze sharp. “Morning?”

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “When the packs leave the festival grounds.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped.

You weren’t saying no. But you weren’t saying yes.

You were giving yourself time. Time to think. Time to question whatever this was. To understand your feelings. And maybe, to say goodbye.

One thing became clear to Jungkook in that moment—he wasn’t going to waste a single second he still had with you. Because if you were still questioning him, still wondering if he was loyal to you—if you had a place within your pack that had made you doubt him so easily—then he would prove it to you.

He would make you stay.

Jungkook finally exhaled, stepping closer—not aggressively, but firmly. The air between him and Yoongi was tense.

“This conversation can wait until morning,” Jungkook said, finality in his tone.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you before he exhaled. He didn’t say anything else, but Jungkook could feel the doubt in his stare. Then, Yoongi tilted his head, considering something.

“We’re having a BBQ later,” he said, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “You should come.”

Jungkook stiffened.

Yoongi wasn’t talking to him.

He was talking to you.

And you—you were actually thinking about it.

Jungkook didn’t let you answer.

“We already ate.”

The word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze darkening, but Jungkook didn’t care.

He was done.

He was done with the way Yoongi looked at you. With the way Yoongi spoke to you, like you already belonged to him, his pack. With the way you let his scent stay on you.

The way it twisted something deep in his gut, something raw and uncontrollable.

Yoongi held his stare for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed, lifting his hands in a mock surrender.

“Your loss.”

Jungkook said nothing. Just turned. It was pure instinct when he ushered you away from Yoongi, away from the weight of his gaze, away from the scent he had left on you like a stain Jungkook couldn't fucking ignore. When he finally stopped, it was in a quieter part of the grounds, where the festival noise hummed rather than roared, where the air wasn’t thick with the weight of too many bodies pressed close together.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Show me your wrist.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, eyes flickering over your face, searching, as if looking for something he couldn't quite name. Then, just as quickly, his gaze dropped.

To your wrist.

To the place Yoongi had touched.

His jaw tightened.

Before you could react, before you could even question it, his hand reached out, hovering just above your skin.

"Show me," he muttered.

You blinked, still rattled, still trying to process what just happened.

"What?"

"Your wrist," he said, voice low, edged with something unreadable. "Where he touched you."

You hesitated, instinct screaming at you to pull away, to leave before this became something you couldn't take back.

But—fuck.

He was looking at you like that again.

Like you were important. Like you mattered. Like you were something he could lose.

And for some stupid, ridiculous reason—you wanted to be just that to him.

Still, you slowly lifted your wrist, offering it to him, confused. Wary.

Jungkook didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he let his fingers hover over your skin, the warmth of him so close, yet not quite there. You expected something rough, something forceful, something to remind you exactly who he was.

But instead—

He was gentle.

His fingers brushed against your pulse point, barely-there, softer than you ever thought him capable of.

And then—his expression shifted.

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering over his features as his thumb ghosted over the spot where Yoongi’s scent still clung.

A sharp breath left his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“You barely smell like yourself,” he muttered, voice tight. “Not with the festival, not with—” he cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t even smell you properly.”

His gaze snapped to yours then, dark, searching.

“Let me fix it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched. His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but he didn’t pull away either.

“I want to lay my scent over his,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I want to—” he hesitated, inhaling sharply before forcing himself to continue. “I need you to smell like me again. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Because—no.

No, no, no.

This wasn't happening.

This—this whole thing, this night, his sudden kindness, the games, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—

The scenting. The gifts. The food, earlier. The way he had asked. The way his voice had softened when he said it, like it was something that actually mattered.

This—this was how Alphas behaved around their omegas. How they courted their mates.

And Jungkook had to know that.

It couldn’t be real.

It had to be a joke.

A cruel, twisted joke.

Even for Jungkook.

“Are you—” your voice faltered, cracking as you shook your head. “Are you serious?”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re telling me you suddenly care?” your voice was sharper now, rising, your heart hammering. “After years of treating me like shit—this? This is what you expect me to believe?”

Jungkook didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, taking a step back, forcing him to let you go. Losing some of the gifts on the ground.

“This is cruel,” you whispered, something raw bleeding into your voice. “Even for you.”

Jungkook flinched.

For a moment, just a brief moment, you saw it—the flicker of something in his expression. Guilt.

And then, just as quickly, determination.

“No,” he said, firm.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his voice.

“I don’t want you to think that,” he continued, his tone rough, almost desperate. “I know I have no fucking right to ask for anything from you, but I swear—I will spend every single fucking day proving to you that I mean it.” His breath was uneven, his eyes dark and unreadable. “That if you even honestly consider staying—I will be the best goddamn mate you could ever have.”

Your heart stopped.

Mate.

He said it.

Not as a joke, not in passing, not with a smirk or a cruel edge—he meant it.

He actually, genuinely meant it.

Your stomach twisted, breath shaking as you tried to process his words.

Because this—this was too much.

This was too real.

And Jungkook—Jungkook must have realized it.

Because just as quickly as he had spoken, his gaze shifted.

Softened.

And then, he sighed.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing, still too caught up in your own spiraling thoughts, still trying to understand what the hell was happening.

Jungkook hesitated, then looked back at you, his voice quieter this time.

“I love your scent,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone knocking the breath from your lungs. “I just—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate not being able to smell it.”

His throat bobbed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I hate that he covered it up.”

Your chest ached.

Because—fuck.

He really, really meant it.

You were shaking.

And you didn’t even know why.

Jungkook’s presence was too much.

His words. His touch. The weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a storm, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to stay standing.

Your mind felt like it was folding in on itself, twisting with every word Jungkook had said, every inch of space he refused to give you. The festival, the laughter, the distant hum of celebration—it all turned cruel.

The festival had felt warm before, alive with laughter and the scents of grilled meats and spiced sweets. The lantern lights had flickered gently, welcoming, the hum of voices wrapping around you like an embrace. The way walking, talking with him through it made you feel like you belonged.

But now?

Now, the sounds of the festival felt cruel.

The laughter in the distance mocked you.

The warmth of the festival fires burned too hot, too close.

The prizes Jungkook had won you hung heavy in your hands, their weight an anchor you hadn't asked for. The small stuffed wolf, the silly little trinkets—they meant nothing. But Jungkook had won them for you. Had looked at you with something akin to pride when he handed them over, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

He was too much.

All of it—too much.

You were still shaking.

And Jungkook must have realized it.

Your scent changed, the shift barely noticeable under the layers of festival smoke, grilled meat, and—worst of all—Yoongi. But it was there.

And it was panic.

Jungkook’s heart clenched. His instincts screamed at him to fix it. To calm you, to make you feel safe—to make it stop.

His own body went rigid.

Because fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted.

All he had wanted—all he had been trying to do for the past hours—was make you feel safe.

So, slowly, carefully, he moved.

So slow, you didn’t realize it in your panic.

Like he was approaching a startled animal, as if the slightest movement could send you bolting.

And then, before you could fully process it—his arms wrapped around you.

Engulfed you.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding.

It was careful.

And it was warm.

Shielded you.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other pressing between your shoulders, tucking you against him. Firm but careful, his touch uncertain but solid—so solid.

You froze.

Because what was this?

What the hell was this?

He didn’t try to scent you. He wouldn’t. Not without you allowing it. But he had to do something.

So instead, he just—held you.

His breath, steady and warm, brushed against your ear, his voice low, soothing as he whispered. Low, steady words against your ear, softer than you thought he was capable of.

“You’re okay.”

You weren’t.

“I’ve got you.”

He shouldn’t.

“Just breathe.”

And you hated him for it.

Hated that his voice was soothing. Hated that his arms felt safe. Hated that you felt wanted. Hated that you were longing for this. Hated that he smelled calming. Hated that, despite every inch of your mind screaming at you to pull away—

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched, throat tightening as something inside you cracked.

You sniffled.

A small, tiny sound—barely there.

But Jungkook heard it.

Felt it.

And his whole body tensed, muscles locking as if a single wrong move could shatter you completely. His Omega was crying.

His Omega.

Fuck.

It didn’t matter if you hadn’t accepted it yet—if you were still fighting it, still trying to deny what was standing right in front of you.

Because fuck—

You were crying.

Not sobbing. Not wailing. But the quiet, shaking kind.

The kind that hurt.

And he would not let you go through this alone.

--------

Part 2

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook bts #bts #jeon jungguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #werwolf #jjk x reader

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knight-hiccup · 26 days ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₁

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 11.4k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 11

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You’re responsible for what you read.

The wind howled like a chorus of restless spirits, a mournful dirge born of Njord's restless breath over the vast open sea, clawing at your face with icy fingers as the Deadly Nadder carved through the twilight sky. Two days and one night had bled into a relentless blur since Hiccup's hurried lessons in the arena, his voice steady as he taught the others to wield the dragons' might against the vast, untamed ocean.

Now, perched atop the Nadder's vibrant scales, you clung to Hiccup's waist, your arms a steadfast anchor of warmth against the cold as he guided the beast through the fog-choked air. Astrid pressed close behind you, her grip firm on the ropes, her breath a faint rhythm against the gale.

The dragon's wings beat with a thunderous cadence, each stroke a defiant chant against the abyss below—a sea of churning black, unbroken by land, whispering tales of Aegir's wrath. The night descended swiftly, the sun sinking as the moon cast a faint, pale glow across the starry, bruise-purple sky.

Your cloak, heavy with the weight of wolves' fur, whipped against your sides, its warmth a frail shield against the frost that gnawed at your bones as you dug your face into Hiccups own. The horizon stretched endless, a void where sky and sea merged, and yet Hiccup's resolve burned brighter than any beacon, steering you all toward the dragons' nest by memory and determination drawn by Toothless' chained suffering.

Your mind drifted, tugged back to a moment from the first day's flight, when the ocean's expanse had swallowed all sense of Berk. Snotlout, ever brash, had pushed his Monstrous Nightmare into a reckless dive, his nervous laughter ringing like a war horn as he taunted the others to match his daring.

The dragon's flames had flared almost reaching the boy, a defiant blaze against the gray, then a sudden gust caught the Nightmare's wing, sending Snotlout plummeting toward the waves. Your heart had lurched, a scream trapped in your throat, but Hiccup's instincts were swifter than thought. He'd urged the Nadder into a spiraling descent, its talons grazing Snotlout's cloak and grabbing him with time to spare.

With a grunt Snotlout sighed in relief thinking no one heard. When Hiccup hauled his cousin onto the Nightmare's back, the boy's face paled, his bravado shattered by the rush. Hiccup had guided Snotlout's dragon—calming the beast with a murmured command.

The incident had sobered him, his posture rigid as he gripped the dragons' horns, his showboating silenced by the ocean's unforgiving void. Now, as you flew, Snotlout rode the dragon with a cautious hand, his silhouette a dark smudge against the fog, no longer daring the gods to test his mettle.

Hiccup snapped you back to the present—lifting your head, Hiccup’s shout pierced the gale, sharp as a raven’s cry over the storm.

"Land ahead!" he called, pointing to a faint shadow piercing the mist—a jagged islet, one of the scattered teeth of islets that meant you were only a few more hours to Helheim's Gates' edge until you would see the gray shroud that hid a new world. The islet came into view rising from the sea's embrace as the twilight deepened, the sun's last embers sinking beyond the horizon, and Hiccup urged the Nadder downward, his command a signal for the others.

"Swiftly, before the light's gone!" The dragons obeyed, their wings slicing the air as they descended toward the rocky outcrop, its surface slick with salt and seaweed, gleaming like the scales of Jörmungandr himself. You landed with a jolt, the Nadder's talons scraping stone, and dismounted in a flurry of cloaks and ropes.

The rest followed, their dragons settling around with rumbles of exhaustion. Five hours, Hiccup had decreed, to rest and steel themselves before the dawn's first light—just enough time to catch up to the longships. The air carried a bitter chill, laced with the tang of brine and the faint musk of dragon breath, and you drew your fur cloak tighter, its weight a bulwark against the cold that sought to claim you.

The camp took shape under the gang's weary hands; A blaze kindled from flint and driftwood, casting a golden glow across the stone. You all huddled close for warmth, your fur cloaks—etched with runes of Eihwaz for resilience—draping like war banners over your shoulders.

The dragons curled around you, their scales radiating a primal warmth that rivaled the fire's crackling heart, their breaths a low hymn to Freyr's enduring strength. The Nightmare's tail flicked, sending sparks skyward, while the Gronckle snored, its bulk heavy against the wind. You settled beside Hiccup and Fishlegs, your body sinking into your furs, the day's flight leaching the strength from your limbs.

After the others had long fallen asleep, Hiccup and you talked for some time about what was to come. Trying to figure out a plan but coming short with anything but risky ones. The sky was crystal clear as you two lied down beside each other staring at the stars, unable to sleep from the stress. Without hesitation Hiccup slid his hand into yours without glancing your way, squeezing it in reassurance.

"Stop worrying, okay?" he said, his voice steady and warm. "We've got this, you and me. Whatever's coming—whatever obstacles try to stand in our way—we'll face them together, just like always. We've beaten the odds before, haven't we? Time and time again, we've come through stronger—nothing will get in the way again."

He paused, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity, the kind that carried the weight of years spent side by side—through victories that left you breathless with laughter and losses that carved you all raw.

Moved by his certainty, your fingers curled around his with a gentle, unspoken reply. You squeezed tightly, as if to anchor yourself to his resolve, then shifted closer until you were pressed against his side, your head resting lightly on his arm. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, a quiet shield against the chill.

He stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by your closeness, his breath catching as he processed your move. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—a private, tender thing, meant only for himself, as if he'd just rediscovered a truth he'd always known.

With a careful, almost reverent motion, he draped his arm around your shoulders, drawing you nearer to share his warmth. His embrace was steady, protective, a silent little oath that echoed his earlier words: they were in this together, unyielding against whatever lay ahead.

In the stillness that followed, the air seemed to hum peacefully in your closeness. The world beyond you faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of your breathing—If only it were to stay this way.

"I trust you," you murmured sleepily, voice a fragile thread of sound, barely louder than the sigh of the wind—but he heard you.

The words slipped from your lips with a quiet conviction. Nothing else was said, as sleep claimed you swiftly, a mercy granted by the gods from the cold, and your dreams still a darken tapestry of Toothless' wails and Hiccup's tear-streaked face as you clutched his cloak.

Beside you, Hiccup still lay awake, his gaze tracing the contours of your sleeping form, the firelight dancing across your features. A smile, soft as a feather falling, curved his lips, and he let the warmth of your presence lull him into slumber, your fur cloaks pooling around you both comfortably.

Dawn's approach stirred you first, years of Gobber and Marta's relentless training etched into your bones, forcing your eyes open despite the weight of exhaustion. The fire had dwindled, its flames licking weakly at the driftwood.

Hiccup now had both his arms wrapped around you, his face close but tucked in his furs, and his hair falling over his eyes as he slept peacefully. It warmed you, and you couldn't help but lay your head back down and admire this rare moment. How cute he looked in this moment to you, it made you smile uncontrollably.

However, you couldn't stay there forever no matter how much you wanted to. So, ever so gently you unwrapped his arms from you causing him to stir and mumble, earning yet another smile from you and you rose quietly to hunt for more wood, the warmth of him gone and the chill replacing it.

With practiced care, you fed the blaze quietly, the crackle of fresh logs a defiant song as old as time, playing against the predawn chill. The air smelled of salty, ocean breeze and charred driftwood, mingled with the faint sweetness of the herbs you'd packed. From your bag, you retrieved a small iron skillet, its surface worn by countless meals, and set to work.

Strips of smoked boar sizzled, alongside some rye bread in herb-butter and cheese, their savory aroma curling into the air like an offering to Odin. The gang slept on, their snores a discordant chorus, but the scent of breakfast tugged at Hiccup's senses. He stirred, his auburn hair a wild tangle, and propped himself up, blinking against the fire's glow.

His fur cloak—thick and oversized, nearly swallowing his lanky frame—trailed the ground as he shuffled to your side, settling close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Your smile reached your eyes, a light to him in the frost-kissed dawn.

The closeness of him steadied you, his breathing a soft rhythm that mingled with the fire's crackle, its warmth seeping into your bones against the northern cold. This far from Berk, the air bit deeper, a chill that whispered of Niflheim's frozen halls, but your cloak—lined with wolf pelts and stitched with Algiz runes—held the frost at bay.

Hiccup's own cloak, a massive bear hide that seemed to engulf him, drew a quiet laugh from you, bright and sudden, slicing through the dawn's hush. "You look like a bear cub stumbling from its den," you said, nodding at the cloak's bulk, your voice laced with affection.

"Did you raid Gobber's stores for the largest one he had?" Hiccup's lips quirked, a crooked smile breaking through the weariness carved into his face.

"It's practical," he countered with a shrug and wave of his hand, tugging the fur tighter with a mock huff, his green eyes glinting with a teasing spark. "Keeps the wind out—and makes me look formidable, don't you think?"

Your laughter softened—easy not to wake the others as a shared warmth bloomed in the space between you—a small fleeting shield against the war awaiting beyond the horizon, a terror which gnawed at you.

The moment stretched, a quiet harbor amidst the break of your journey, until Hiccup's voice broke the silence, low and earnest.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the skillet, a flicker of guilt in his eyes at letting you shoulder the work alone.

You nodded toward the bag at his side, its leather worn from travel. "Fill the wooden cups," you said, your tone gentle but firm. "They're in there."

He set to work, his fingers deft despite the cold, pouring water from his waterskin into the small carved oak cups, their surfaces etched with tiny runes. The meat hissed in the skillet, their aroma growing richer, and soon Astrid stirred, her braid askew as she blinked awake, drawn by the scent.

Tuffnut followed, his yawn a raucous bellow that shattered the quiet, rousing the others. Snotlout groaned, his stomach growling as he sat up, eyes gleaming with hunger.

"It's been weeks since I tasted your glorious cooking," he admitted sleepily—eyes still closed his voice thick with anticipation, a rare note of gratitude beneath his usual bluster which made you snort.

The gang gathered around the fire—slowly, one by one, and gathering their food portion. Their furs pooling like a warrior's camp while the dragons' warmth encircled you all as the first light of dawn crept over the islet, heralding the battle to come.

As you all sat there in silence, the fire's embers pulsed like the dying heart of a dragon, casting a flickering glow across the rocky islet, cloaks draped heavy with the pounding weight of Freya's woven threads on your shoulders. Sleep clung to your eyes, a stubborn veil that sharpened the truth dawning in your chests—this was no saga whispered by skalds, but a war clawing at the horizon.

The dragons' nest loomed, a jagged wound in Midgard's flesh, and beyond it, the specter of kin—Stoick, Spitelout. . .Gobber—the Vikings of Berk—whose axes might turn against you if Hiccup's plea for peace fell on ears hardened by centuries of blood-feud. You would be a liar if you said it didn't terrify you.

Your hands tightened around the wooden cup, its Tiwaz rune rough against your palm, as the reality settled like a stone in everyone's gut: this was your first war, a crucible forged of hundreds of years in dragon fire and Viking steel, where failure could shatter the fragile hope Hiccup had finally kindled.

The sea churned beyond, its waves a restless hymn to Aegir's wrath in silence as the meal had vanished, bread and boar savored and gone, leaving you all to linger in the fire's waning warmth, reluctant to break the fragile calm.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, huddled close, their whispers a soft cadence, plotting something or steeling their nerves—you couldn't tell. Astrid, Hiccup, and Fishlegs sat by the embers, their voices low, weaving plans and contingencies, their words punctuated by the Gronckle's snores.

Snotlout, ever restless, stood apart, performing a bizarre ritual of armpit stretches and grunts, his movements jerking like a berserker's dance, as if to banish fear through sheer bravado. You rose, your cloak trailing as you drifted to the islet's edge, where the sea stretched toward the unseen nest.

Stretching alone, your muscles loosened under the fur's weight, but your thoughts spiraled into a maelstrom of worry. In the horizon was a gray veil—seen even from where you stood, hiding the longships and Toothless' chained form, and a gnawing unease settled in your bones, whispering of perils beyond the beast fire.

The sun hit you in orange hues, like fire licking at your worried soul—breathtaking, like the calm before a storm. Your boots scuffed the slick stone, the wind's briny sting sharp against your face, and you stared into the fog, searching for answers the sea refused to yield.

The unease deepened, a shadow cast by no sun, and your brows furrowed, carving lines of dread across your face. You didn't hear Hiccup's approach, his boots muffled by the wind's mournful wail, until his hand—warm, calloused—rested on your shoulder. You jolted, spinning to face him, your breath catching as his green eyes met yours, soft yet piercing, like the first light of Yggdrasil's dawn.

He studied you, reading the worry etched into your features as easily as a runestone, and his expression softened, a quiet sorrow flickering beneath his resolve. Slowly, his fingers brushed your cheek, a fleeting touch that traced the curve of your skin before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was tender, unguarded, and it sent a shiver through you, warmer than the cloak's embrace.

"Don't carry this alone," he said, his voice low, woven with the strength of Thor's hammer. He glanced back, ensuring the gang's chatter masked his words, then leaned closer, his breath a faint warmth against the cold.

"Whatever we face, stay close to me," his words, earnest and calculated, carried a spark of something deeper, a longing he hadn't meant to betray, and it hung between you like a star kindled in the dark.

Your face warmed, a flush blooming beneath the wind's bite, and your stomach fluttered, urging you to close the distance. You kissed his blushed cheek then stared at him to pull him into an embrace that could anchor you both against the coming war as his arms tighten around you.

Astrid's shout sliced through the moment, sharp as a blade. "Dragons are ready! Pack up—we're heading out!"

Her voice carried the weight of command, stirring the gang to their feet, their cloaks flapping as they gathered their meager supplies. Hiccup turned, his gaze lingering on you, and offered that knowing smile—crooked, confident, the one that had steadied you through countless trials.

It was your promise that he'd stand beside you, come what may. You nodded, the dread in your chest easing just enough to let you breathe, and followed him back to the group, your boots crunching against the stone. The dragons stirred, their wings rustling like war banners, and the islet grew taut with purpose, the dawn's first light glinting off scales as you prepared to fly toward the nest—and the war that awaited.

A/N: Content Advisory: This following part of this chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You're responsible for what you read.

The veil of Helheim's Gate loomed before you, a churning wall of gray cloud that swallowed the dawn's frail light, as if the jaws of Níðhöggr himself had exhaled the fog to shroud the dragons' nest. A few hours' flight had brought you to this threshold, the air growing thicker, heavier, with each beat of the Deadly Nadder's wings.

You clung to Astrid's shoulders, Hiccup's arms tight around you from behind, his breath steady against the wind's feral howl. You all hovered at the veil's edge, your dragons shifting restlessly, their scales glinting like war-forged iron under the muted sky.

Nostrils flaring with chests that pulsed faintly, as if pleading with the gods for passage through this accursed haze. Ruffnut's voice broke the silence, flat and hollow, her words tinged with a dread that mirrored the knot in your gut.

"This fog. . .it's like flying into Hel's own maw. Are we sure this is even a good idea?"

Her monotone cut through the wind, her eyes darting to the others, seeking reassurance none could offer. The rest murmured in agreement, their faces pale as bone, but Hiccup's voice rose, steady as a chieftain's oath.

"Trust the dragons," he said, his tone unyielding. "They know the path. Follow their lead."

He nodded to Astrid, who gripped the Nadder's reins, urging it forward with a sharp command, and you felt Hiccup's hands tighten as you plunged into the veil, the world behind dissolving into a stinging, ashen blur.

The air grew warm, unnaturally so, a cloying heat that seeped through your wolf-pelt cloak and pricked at your skin like embers from a cursed forge. The deeper you flew, the more the warmth turned oppressive, a suffocating weight that pressed against your chest, whispering of the nest's unholy heart.

Unease coiled in your gut, shared by the gang's tense silence—Snotlout's knuckles white on the nightmare's horns, Fishlegs's muttered prayers to Thor, the twins' bickering stilled by the fog's eerie grip. Even Hiccup and Astrid, who had once glimpsed the nest in darkness, seemed to falter, their breaths sharp against the heat.

This was no mere cavity but a wound in Midgard's flesh, its pulse a drumbeat of dread that quickened your own. Eyes seemed to watch from the fog's depths, unseen and malevolent, and the Nadder beneath you stirred, its movements jerky, as if drawn by a force beyond its will. The other dragons followed suit, their wings slicing the haze with frenzied urgency, as if hypnotized by some ancient call.

"This is it! We're getting close!" Hiccup shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let the dragons guide us—they know the way!"

Astrid's whispered words, barely audible, sent a chill through you, "I hope we're not too late. . ." Her doubt pierced your resolve, and your gut twisted, the weight of Toothless' chains and Stoick's war pressing heavier as the veil swallowed you whole.

The haze bit like embers, searing your vision, blinding and relentless, a gray shroud that choked your senses and burned your throat with each ragged breath. Visibility vanished, the world reduced to the Nadder's frantic wingbeats and the gang's muffled cries. Ruffnut and Tuffnut grappled with their Zippleback, its twin heads thrashing as they clung to the dragons horns, cursing under their breath.

Snotlout squeezed his eyes shut, his face a mask of terror, while Fishlegs wailed, "We're gonna slam into a rock!" But you, Hiccup, and Astrid held fast, trusting the Nadder's instinct, its talons curling as it surged forward urgently. Hiccup's grip on your waist tightened, a lifeline against the blinding winds, and you leaned into him, your heart pounding like a war drum.

Then, as if the gods had torn the veil asunder, the fog expeditiously parted, and the nightmare unfurled before you—a vision so horrific it seared itself into your soul as you blinked the burning ash away. The Red Death loomed—roaring—a mountain of scales and malice, its massive form sprawled across the volcanic shore like a titan cast from Ragnarök's forge.

Its hide, a patchwork of red, blue, and gray, gleamed sickly in the firelight, its six eyes—a piercing silver and slitted—burning with a hunger that could devour worlds. Jagged spines lined its back, each the size of a longship's mast—the same as the crown on its head, and its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of teeth like blackened spears, dripping with molten saliva that hissed against the stone. The volcano behind it towered, its new crater glowing with an infernal light, casting the beast in a dread silhouette that seemed to choke the very air.

Your heart plummeted, a stone sinking into the abyss of your gut, as your mouth fell open, eyes wide with disbelief that clawed at your sanity. The beast bellow surged, a tide of malice that drowned the cries of the dying, and around it, chaos reigned. Longships lay shattered, their dragon-headed prows splintered into kindling, Embers gnawed the wreckage, their glow consuming the shore.

Bodies floated in the water, Viking warriors reduced to broken husks, their armor spent, and flesh torn, legs stripped to bone by rocks and splinter. Bodies burnt to crisp by dragon fire, their nudity a grotesque testament to the battle's savagery. Crimson tides churned, fed by the slaughter’s toll, pooling on the black sand where survivors screamed, their battle cries ragged with defiance and despair.

A warrior's arm dangled from a jagged rock, severed at the shoulder, its fingers still clutching a sword etched with Algiz runes, now useless. Another lay sprawled, his chest caved in, ribs jutting like shattered spears, his eyes staring blankly at the sky as blood bubbled from his lips.

The air reeked of charred flesh, sulfur, and iron, a miasma that choked your lungs and burned your eyes with tears—not of sorrow, but of raw, visceral horror. Just as there were dozens of men, there were dozens of dead dragons that littered the ground, their scales scorched and muted, wings torn to pieces, a Gronckle's head half-severed as if bitten off, its tongue lolling in a pool of its own ichor. This was war, a slaughter forged in fire and evil, and it hit you like a million shards of ice, piercing every hope you'd carried from Berk.

The scene unfolded in agonizing slow motion, as if the Norns had woven time into a tapestry of torment, forcing you to witness each atrocity with unbearable clarity. From the Nadder's back, you saw a Viking charge toward the dragon, his axe raised, only for the beast's tail to whip through the air, crushing his legs into a pulpy mess.

Another collapsed, screaming, his armor splitting as blood sprayed, his thighs bared to the bone, a grotesque nudity born of violence. The Red Death's claw descended, tearing through his chest like a warm knife through butter, and his scream died in a wet gurgle, his body flung into the sea like offal.

"Hiccup!" Your voice ripped through the inferno's roar, a sharp, desperate cry that slashed like a blade through the chaotic din surrounding them. The name rang out, raw and urgent, as your breath clouded in the frigid air, mingling with the sulfurous reek of the dragons' nest.

You all hovered in a fleeting pocket of stillness, suspended amidst the terror of noise and motion—a cacophony of shouted orders, the clatter of steel, and the relentless howl of the wind that threatened to swallow them whole. Hiccups own eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and resolve, scoured the carnage below, searching for a thread of hope amidst the shattered longships and blood-soaked shores.

His grip on your waist tightened, his ragged breath hot against your ear, grounding you as he ground himself. Astrid wove the Nadder through a blast of flame, its heat searing the air like the breath of Muspelheim.

"Stay with me," he whispered, his words a sorrowful yet solemn vow to Odin, etched with the weight of a warrior's oath. The beast guttural cry pulsed, a tremor that cracked the stone beneath, its six eyes blazing like cursed stars—whipping against the gale as the battle's horror unfolded.

"I've got a plan!" Hiccup’s call rang out, bold as a chieftain’s horn, rallying the gang, commanding attention. Every ear turned, locked on him, though none dared look away from the Red Death's towering malice of a titan.

"Fishlegs! Break it down!" he called, his gaze snapping to the boy, who flinched, his round face pale with terror and confusion. "The dragon, Fishlegs! Give us your analysis—now!"

Fishlegs blinked, then scanned the beast, his voice trembling but rising with the frantic clarity of survival. "Alright—uh—heavily armored skull, tail built for bashing and crushing! Stay clear of both! Small eyes, huge nostrils—depends on scent and sound, not sight!"

Hiccup nodded, his mind racing, a spark of strategy kindling in his green eyes. "Okay. . ." He breathes, "Good. Lout! Legs! Stick to its blind spots, make as much noise as you can—keep it disoriented! Ruff! Tuff! Find its shot limit—piss it off, get it reckless!"

Snotlout's brow furrowed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "As if it's not already angry?"

Ruffnut barked a laugh, her eyes glinting with feral glee. "That's my specialty!"

Tuffnut scoffed, yanking at the Zippleback's reins. "Since when!? Everyone knows I'm more irritating!" Tuffnut went to argue going to flip his dragon's head.

Hiccup's shout silenced their bickering, sharp as a chieftain's command. "Focus! Just do what I told you! I'll be back as soon as I can!" Hiccup shouts and the three of you leave them.

He turned to Astrid, his voice steady. "Keep driving, watch for threats. We're finding Toothless." You and Hiccup scanned the chaos below, hearts pounding in unison, bound by a shared resolve to save the Night Fury.

The Nadder dove, Astrid's hands steady on the reins as you and Hiccup searched the burning shore for Toothless. The Red Death's hide bore wounds—gashes from Viking spears and swords still pierced in its legs, oozing a viscous green ichor that steamed on the stone—but they were mere scratches to a beast that dwarfed mountains.

You could hear the arrival of the twins, Lout and Legs arrive on the scene surprising everyone down below as they went to work on top of dragons. The beast tail lashed, smashing another longship into splinters, and a Viking's body sailed through the air as Astrid, you and Hiccup flew by, his gut split open, entrails trailing like a comet's tail before he struck the volcano's rim, lifeless.

Your stomach churned, bile clawing at your throat as the screams of the dying wove into the dragons' roars, a symphony of despair laced with the twins' reckless taunts. Toothless’ anguished roar tore through the inferno, a cry of chained defiance. His chained form a dark silhouette against a burning ship, his obsidian scales scorched but defiant. Hiccup's eyes locked on him, his resolve a blazing beacon.

"There!" he shouted, pointing to the Night Fury's thrashing form, his voice thick with urgency.

Astrid guided the Nadder downward, flames licking at the dragon's wings as the inferno around Toothless grew, a pyre threatening to consume him. Hiccup rose into a kneel behind you, his hand bracing on your shoulder for balance, and leapt onto the ship's burning deck, the wood groaning under his weight. Without hesitation, you followed, landing hard, the heat searing through your boots as embers stung your face.

"It's too dangerous!" Hiccup protested, his eyes wide with fear for you, but your stern gaze silenced him, a fire in your expression that brooked no argument.

"Together, remember?" you half-shouted, your voice cutting through the crackle of flames.

He sighed, a flicker of pride softening his fear, and nodded to Astrid. "Go help the others!"

Astrid pulled the Nadder skyward, her curse lost in the wind as she rejoined the fray. The ship groaned, its timbers buckling under the fire's assault, and Toothless grew frantic, his chains rattling like the shackles of Fenrir.

Around you, it was nothing but a slaughterhouse—Viking corpses strewn like offal, one warrior's legs bared to bone by splintered wood, his flesh a blackened ruin, another's skull crushed, brain matter oozing onto the sand. The air tasted of iron and char, a miasma that choked your lungs, but you and Hiccup moved as one, your eyes fixed on Toothless, bound by a vow to free him or die trying.

The Red Death's snarl thundered, in a wrathful hymn which shook the earth, a call to Ragnarök, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving deeper into your soul. Hiccup and you tried to figure out how to unchain Toothless in a frenzy of anxiety.

The burning ship groaned beneath your boots, its timbers splintering as flames licked closer like a ravenous beast. Toothless thrashed against his chains, his obsidian scales heating, his concerned wails a dagger to the gut as you and Hiccup worked frantically to free him.

"It's alright, bud! We're here, hold on!" Hiccup's voice broke through the fire's roar, raw with desperation as he tore at the crude headpiece clamping Toothless' jaws, its iron bolts rusted and unyielding.

You scrambled to the dragon's side, your fingers fumbling with the leather bands binding his hind limbs, their edges biting into his flesh, leaving raw, weeping welts. With a grunt, you released the straps, his wings unfurling with a leathery snap, their tips singed but unbroken.

Hiccup attacked the chains at the dragon's chest, his dagger scraping against iron links, now twisted by the fire's heat. The air choked with ash and blood, the reek of charred flesh mingling with the sulfurous stench of the nest, and every crackle of the encroaching flames tightened the knot in your gut that you were losing time.

Beyond the ship, the Red Death spit for that of the volcano's blackened rim—annoyed by the twins and Snotlout, its gouts of fire painting the sky in hues of Ragnarök, while a Viking screams as he gets tossed in the air and eaten—ragged, futile— a sound that quickly echoed from the blood-dust air.

Your hands were fast as you freed one hind chain, the iron clanking against the deck, but a sudden uproar from the gang pierced the chaos—Snotlout's curses, Fishlegs's panicked shouts, the Zippleback's twin roars mingling with the dragon's thunder. Their struggle to keep the beast distracted faltered, a fraying thread that made Hiccup panic, and your stomach lurched, torn between Toothless and the friends facing death's maw.

Hiccup's hand seized your arm, spinning you to face him, his green eyes blazing with urgency through the smoke. "Listen to me!" he shouted, his voice cutting like a seax through the din. "I've got this—you need to help them!"

You opened your mouth to protest, the words clawing at your throat, but he pressed on, his grip tightening. "They need you more than I do right now! I need time to free Toothless, to get us there faster. I'm begging you—I've got this, please."

His plea, raw and unguarded, carried the weight of his shoulders. Your frown deepened, a maelstrom of fear and loyalty warring within, but you nodded, your voice steady despite the ache.

"Alright." With a heavy sigh, you turned, the flames' heat searing your back as you moved to leave, each step a battle against the instinct to stay.

"Hiccup!" you shouted, pausing at the ship's edge, your voice sharp with a fear you couldn't bury. He turned, his face smudged with soot, his eyes meeting yours through the haze.

"Be careful," you said, the words a quiet prayer to Freya, laced with the weight of all you couldn't say.

His lips curved, a faint, crooked smile that held his defiance. "You too," he replied, his voice soft but resolute, a vow to return to you.

He turned back to Toothless, the steel pole he found flashing as he hacked at the chains, the Night Fury's sounds mingling with the fire's crackle. You leapt from the ship, landing hard on the black sand, the impact jarring your knees as embers stung your face.

The chill that shivered down your spine at the sight all around brought new nightmares—Viking and dragon remains strewn like broken offerings, one alive, but in agony held his leg screaming—his right leg split open, and femur jutting like shattered oars, A dark tide seeped from his wounds, staining the sand. Another lay face-down, his lower half stripped from his upper half to the battle's savagery. A dead Zippleback sprawled nearby, one skull caved in, the other torn from its body, green ichor seeping from a gash that exposed its shattered jaw.

The beast hide, oozing viscous green from spear wounds, loomed like a mountain, its roars drowning the gang's desperate cries. You ran toward them, your cloak flapping like a war banner, the weight of Hiccup's trust and the gang's survival driving you into the heart of the inferno.

The air was a furnace, thick with the stench of blood and ash, as you sprinted across the shore, dodging a falling spar from a burning longship. The gang's dragons wove through the sky, their roars a defiant hymn against the Red Death's wrath, but their movements grew frantic, their strength waning under the beast's relentless assault.

Snotlout's shouts, laced with profanity, rang out as he urged his hammer into one of the dragons' eyes, while Fishlegs's voice cracked, lost in panic as he came hurling down with his Gronckle. The Zippleback's twin heads spewed gas and sparks, but the beast massive claw swiped through the air, narrowly missing them, its bellow shaking the earth like Jörmungandr's thrash.

A Viking's scream cut short nearby, his body hurled skyward, his armor rent to expose a gutted chest, entrails dangling as he was crushed under the beast paw, the ash swallowing his blood. Your stomach roiled, the horror sinking deeper, but Hiccup's plea echoed in your mind, amidst the carnage.

Toothless' wails grew fainter behind you, Hiccup's silhouette a shadow in the flames, and you pushed forward, your heart a war drum beating for the clan, for Hiccup, for the hope of ending this slaughter. The Red Death's eyes burned through the smoke, a promise of death, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving into your soul as you raced to join the fight.

The inferno raged, a crucible of fire and blood that painted the dragons' nest in hues of Ragnarök's dawn. Astrid's sharp eyes caught your wave through the smoke, her Deadly Nadder swooping low, its talons grazing the black sand as you leapt onto its back, landing with a thud behind her.

The dragon's scales burned hot beneath you, its wings slicing the air as it climbed. "Where's Hiccup and that dragon?" Astrid shouted, her voice a blade over the cacophony of roars and screams.

"He's got it under control!" you yelled back, your words steady despite the chaos. "Hiccup needs us to buy him time! Get me to the beast's head—I'll join Snotlout!"

Astrid grunted, her jaw tight, and urged the Nadder toward the Red Death's massive skull, weaving through gouts of flame that seared the air like Loki's deceit. The beast was distracted, its six eyes swiveling toward the Zippleback's taunting blasts, the twins' laughter a reckless hymn to Thor.

You leapt from the Nadder's back, a warrior born of Berk's unforgiving heart, your movements fluid and precise, a dance of defiance against the Red Death's anger. Mid-air, you unclasped your wolf-pelt cloak letting it fall in a discarded heap down below, the weight shedding to reveal the battle-hardened form beneath.

Astrid's voice rang out as she pulled away, "Good luck!" The Nadder banked sharply, joining the fray above, leaving you to face the beast with Snotlout, your pulse surges like a dragon's beating wings, tempered by the fire of years in silent practice.

You landed atop the beast's thrashing head, balancing on its jagged scales with the grace of a Valkyrie, your boots gripping the slick surface as it roared, a sound that split the sky like Mjölnir's strike. Kneeling swiftly, you drew twin daggers from your fur-lined boots, their blades etched with Sowilo runes, gleaming with the promise of victory.

You sprinted into a slide across the beast's skull, opposite Snotlout, who hammered at its right eyes with desperate blows, his curses lost in the wind. Without hesitation, you plunged one dagger into the dragons hide, the blade sinking deep into its armored flesh, anchoring you as you hurled the second dagger with lethal precision into one of its six eyes on the left.

The orb burst, green ichor spraying like a cursed tide, blinding the eye and drawing a bellow of agony that shook the volcano's rim. The gang froze, jaws agape, their eyes wide at your transformation—from the quiet baker who kneaded bread in Berk's hearths to a warrior forged in secret, trained daily to slay dragons, now unleashed in a maelstrom of steel and fury.

Tuffnut's voice broke the stunned silence, a wild cheer cutting through the chaos.

"Holy fucking Thor, you're a badass!" he shouted, his Zippleback weaving dangerously close as he gawked.

Snotlout faltered, his hammer pausing mid-swing, mesmerized by your ferocity, until your voice snapped like a whip. "Focus on the task at hand!"

The beast thrashed, its head jerking in agony, and you and Snotlout clung to its scales, your muscles straining as the beast's roars drowned the warrior cries of Vikings below. Seizing the moment, Astrid and the twins struck from behind, the Nadder's spines and the Zippleback's gas blasts peppering the beast's flanks, drawing gouts of steaming ichor.

You drew another dagger from your boot, its hilt now worn from hidden practice, and sprinted toward the next eye, your boots slipping on the blood-slick scales. With a cry, you drove the blade deep into the second orb, the eye rupturing in a spray of viscous green splattering you in its hot blood.

The Red Death's screech a death knell that rattled your bones. The beast bucked, knocking Snotlout backward, his body slamming into the crown of spines, where he clung, cursing, "Hel!"

You dangled from the beast's brow, your dagger lodged in its hide the only thing keeping you from the jagged shore far below, your arms burning as you fought to hold on. The dragons remaining eye locked on you, burning with a fury that could sunder mountains, its massive claw swiping futilely, too short to reach.

You yelped, your grip slipping, Snotlout too far to help, his own hands clawing at the spines for survival. Astrid's shout pierced the chaos—"Hiccup's up!"—and a surge of strength flooded your core. With a guttural cry, you heaved yourself upward, muscles screaming, and scrambled back onto the beast's head, your daggers flashing as you charged the opposite side—wasting no time.

The twins' Zippleback dove, snatching Snotlout in the air from the crown just as he had scrambled across, their gas trail igniting in a burst that singed the dragon's neck. Astrid's Nadder swooped toward you, but the beast's head thrashed, as if sensing her intent to get you, forcing her to bank sharply.

The Red Death's maw opened, inhaling with a force that sucked the air from the sky, pulling Astrid's Nadder into a spiraling struggle, her curses lost in the wind. Then, a piercing shriek tore through the chaos—the unmistakable phantom wail of a Night Fury. Your heart leapt, knowing Hiccup and Toothless had joined the fray, their shadow a fleeting hope against the madness.

In that split second, you drew another dagger, your last, and drove it into a third eye, the orb exploding in a gush of ichor that coated your arm in a hot mess, as the beast's roar shook the earth. Astrid's Nadder broke free, her wings beating furiously as she climbed.

Its jaws gaped wider in agony, its throat glowing with molten fire, and Hiccup seized the moment—Toothless' plasma blast rocketed into the maw, a blinding violet star that erupted in the beast's gullet. The shockwave knocked you off balance, your boots slipping as you tumbled down the beast rising head, the world spinning in a blur of fire and blood. You plummeted, the shore rushing up, and shut your eyes, bracing for the end. But the ground never came.

"Did you get her?" Hiccup shouted.

Toothless' talons gripped your shoulders, his gummy smile a relief as he held you aloft, his wings beating against the smoke. Hiccup leaned forward, his face taut with worry, his eyes searching yours for signs of harm. He extended a hand, and with Toothless' help, you scrambled onto the dragon's back, settling behind Hiccup with a breathless effort, your arms wrapping around him as the Night Fury soared.

Your veins pounded, adrenaline and relief flooding your veins, and in a fleeting act of instinct, you pressed a kiss to Hiccup's cheek, the gesture soft against the war's brutality. He turned, his eyes widen, and he smiled, and gently took your hand to kiss it, his touch a calm amidst the chaos.

Hiccup's resolve hardened, a new Hiccup—fierce and perilous like a warrior ignited within, roused from slumber with a singular purpose. His eyes locked on the beast, burning with unyielding determination.

Toothless' wings cut through the smoke, landing hard on a rocky outcrop away from the heart of the fray, the black sand trembling beneath his talons. The Red Death's roars echoed, a thunderous curse that shook the island, its wounded eyes oozing green ichor like tears of a fallen god.

Hiccup's face was taut, smudged with soot and resolve, as he turned to you, his voice urgent but steady. "You need to get off," he said, his green eyes locking with yours, a storm of determination swirling within.

"Toothless and I—we've trained for this. I have to do it alone."

Your heart lurched, a protest rising in your throat. "But Hiccup!" you cried, the words raw with fear for him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pressed his own against yours, the gesture soft yet fierce, a shy substitute for the words he couldn't yet speak. The warmth of his lips lingered, grounding you.

"Trust me," he urged, his voice a plea, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity, as if willing you to believe in him one last time. You bit your lip, your chest tight with dread, but nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I do trust you. . ." Slipping off Toothless' back, you landed on the blood-slick stone, your boots slipping slightly as you took Hiccup's hand. He stared down at you, his gaze serious yet softened with a love that needed no words.

"Go get him—Dragon Master," you said, your voice steady despite the ache, a spark of pride cutting through your fear.

Hiccup's lips curved into a smirk, and Toothless' gummy tongue swiped your arm, a fleeting comfort before the Night Fury's wings clapped, launching them skyward in a thunderous burst that echoed like Mjölnir and lightning.

Footsteps pounded behind you, and you turned to see Stoick, Gobber, Marta, Astrid and the gang, and more sprinting toward you, their faces etched with awe and terror as they watched Hiccup and Toothless climb the sky. Stoick's armor was dented, blood streaking his beard, while Gobber's peg leg scraped the sand, his hook gleaming with ichor.

Marta's braid was singed, her axe notched from battle, and Astrid's eyes burned with a mix of pride and worry, her Nadder circling above. The Red Death, still reeling from its blinded eyes, thrashed sluggishly, its massive form casting a shadow like Jörmungandr's coils, its roars muffled by the pain of your daggers' wounds.

Sulfur clouded your senses in a miasma that clawed at your lungs, but your eyes stayed fixed on Hiccup, a lone silhouette against the inferno, Toothless' wings a blur as they vanished into the smoke. The Night Fury’s keening howl shattered the silence, in a spectral call from the heavens—Its unmistakable wail, a phantom echo reverberating through the nest, but their speed rendered them invisible, a specter of vengeance born of lightning and death itself.

Then, a violet plasma blast erupted, slamming into the Red Death's flank, the explosion illuminating the beast's hide in a sickly glow, ichor spraying like a cursed fountain. The crowd gasped, Stoick's fist clenching—worried and proud—as Hiccup and Toothless vanished again, swallowed by the haze.

A slow, creeping terror gripped you, your breath catching as the beast stirred with a vibrating growl of pure red hatred, its massive wings unfurling from lack of use with a groan that rivaled the earth's own lament. The wings stretched, blotting out the sky, casting you all into a darkness as absolute as Hel's embrace, their jagged edges tearing at the clouds like the claws of Níðhöggr.

Debris rained down—shattered scales, bone fragments, and ash—pelting your shoulders as you braced against the onslaught, the wind howling with the beast's fury. With a bone-rattling leap, the dragon launched skyward, its wings flapping with a force that unleashed a gale, knocking you and the Vikings backward with hard force.

Screams and grunts filled the air—Gobber cursing, "Fucking beast!" as he stumbled, Marta shielding her face, Stoick planting his feet like an oak against the storm. Each flap sent shockwaves, the sand stinging your skin, until the beast climbed higher, its shadow receding as it pursued Hiccup and Toothless into the heavens.

Beneath your ribs, a relentless pulse surged, echoing the clash of war as you scrambled to your feet, the Vikings rallying around you, their faces pale but resolute—a testament to the battle's cry. The Red Death's roars grew distant, its wounded maw trailing smoke, but the nest still burned, flames licking at the wreckage of longships, their dragon-headed prows reduced to kindling.

Toothless’ distant cries pulsed through the smoke—thrashing—in hope amidst the carnage, and you clung to Hiccup's promise, your daggers spent but your spirit unbroken. Stoick's hand rested on your shoulder, heavy with unspoken gratitude, his eyes fixed on the sky where his son waged war against a beast.

The gang's dragons circled around them, their roars a defiant chorus, but the beast shadow loomed, a promise of death that threatened to consume all. Your gaze never wavered, locked on the heavens, where Hiccup and Toothless fought to end this slaughter.

The sky churned darker, a cauldron of smoke and storm clouds that swallowed the frail light of the afternoon skies, as if the gods themselves mourned the slaughter below. All of your eyes were fixed on the heavens where Hiccup and Toothless had vanished. Roars reverberated, a primal curse that shook the ground like the footsteps of Ymir, its wounded head and maw trailing wisps of black smoke, and three of its six eyes blinded by your daggers, oozing green ichor that hissed against its scales and splattered down below.

Then, a shadow broke through the distant haze—Toothless' sleek form, Hiccup's silhouette hunched low, streaking across the sky like a comet forged in Valhalla's fires. They flew far off, a daring gambit to lure the Red Death away from the island, away from the survivors huddled on the blood-soaked shore.

"Quite the chief you have in the making there. . ." Gobber bellowed to Stoick beside him, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Aye. . ." Stoick murmured, his voice hushed with awe, utterly thunderstruck.

The beast followed, its massive frame a nightmare of scales and fury, its remaining eyes locked on Hiccup and Toothless with a hunger that could devour the stars. It ignored you all, its roars a single-minded vow to crush the Night Fury and his rider, the only ones who dared defy its reign.

You watched, astonishment and fear warring in your chest, as Hiccup and Toothless banked sharply, their speed a blur against the gray veil. The beast pursuit was relentless, its wings—each flap a thunderclap—tearing through the air, knocking jagged islets into the sea as it passed.

The splintered rock sent waves crashing, salty droplets splashing your face, stinging your eyes, while shards of sand and stone pelted you all, the debris biting like fangs. Stoick's bellow was nearly drowned by the gale, his massive frame shielding the teens with Marta as Gobber braced against the wind, his hook glinting with ichor. Your gaze never wavered, fists clenched, a silent prayer to Freya etched in your eyes for Hiccups safe return.

Hiccup's plan unfolded with desperate precision, guiding Toothless higher, their forms weaving through the chaos to draw the beast away from the nest's heart. The beast bulk grazed another islet, shattering it into rubble that rained into the sea, the impact sending a tremor through the ground beneath you.

Hiccup urged Toothless upward, the Night Fury's wings slicing the air as they climbed into the heavens again, vanishing into a roiling storm of dark gray clouds that churned like the breath of Níðhöggr. The sky swallowed them, their piercing shrieks fading into an eerie silence, leaving only the Red Death's distant roars and the crackle of burning longships.

Your breath caught, your lips bitten raw with worry, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue as you stared at the clouds, willing Hiccup to emerge. Stoick's hand tightened on your shoulder, his grip a mirror of your own fear, his weathered face carved with the anguish of a father who might lose his son.

The Vikings around you stood frozen, their shields dented and bloodied, their eyes reflecting the same dread—Gobber muttering curses, Marta clutching her axe, Astrid's jaw tight with unspoken terror. The nest burned below, flames licking your skin with glows of red, its dragon-headed prow reduced to ash, while a Viking's corpse nearby stared blankly.

The silence stretched, a torturous void that gnawed at your resolve, the weight of Hiccup's absence pressing like a stone on your chest. When suddenly the Red Death's shadow loomed beyond the clouds, its wings casting flickers of darkness through the storm, as the Night Furys' blast bent on in vengeance against it one after another—showing the beast silhouette.

Your pulse pounded, eyes never leaving the sky. Stoick's grip steadied you, his silence growing louder, as you all shared vigil for the boy who carried Berk's hope. And you all held your breath, their outcome hanging on a thread woven by the Norns, as you waited for your Dragon Master to return.

A sudden roar tore through the silence, not the Red Death's bellow but a rushing of a thousand winds, as if a mountain had been hurled from the heavens by Thor's own hand. The smoke parted, a veil ripped asunder, revealing the beast plummeting face-first toward the earth, its massive frame a colossus of ruin.

Flames choked its maw, erupting from within, a molten inferno that lit its scales in a sickly glow, its three blinded eyes still oozing green ichor like cursed rivers rushing. Its wings tattered and riddled with holes from the Night Furies' relentless plasma blasts—flailing desperately, clawing at the air to regain flight, but the beast was too broken, its strength bled out by Hiccup and Toothless fury.

Your eyes snapped to a smaller shadow—Hiccup and Toothless, falling directly in the Red Death's path, their forms spiraling through the smoke, too close to the beast's flaming jaws.

A scream ripped from your throat, "Hiccup!" raw and piercing, a blade of terror that cut through everyone as you all watched on.

You surged forward, your boots pounding the sand, but Gobber's arms seized around you, pulling you into a huddle with the others as you all braced for the cataclysm. The beast crashed—instantly breaking its neck under its own greedy weight, a shockwave of fire and force slammed into you all, the heat searing your skin like the breath of Muspelheim, the blast's weight nearly crushing your bones.

The world dimmed, your senses dulled by the impact, the heat and force pressing you into the sand as you clung to consciousness. You lay there, half-buried under Gobber's arm, his bulk shielding you, his breath ragged as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. The nest fell silent, an eerie void that smothered the screams and roars, leaving only the crackle of flames, ash and the groan of the beast dying form.

Your eyes fluttered open, your body aching, and you slipped from Gobber's slackened hold, his frame still dazed from the blast. Rising, you stood frozen, your face pale, your frame trembling as you stared at the fireball engulfing the beast, its massive body wreathed in flames that danced like the fires of Hel.

The beast scales smoked, its torn wings limp and bone, its maw silent but for the fading hiss of its final breath. Your mind screamed one truth: Hiccup and Toothless were beneath that beast's nose when it fell, their forms swallowed by the inferno. Your heart weakly skipping with dread, a war drum drowning all else, and your feet moved on their own, slow at first, then breaking into a sprint toward the blaze, uncaring of the heat that scorched your skin.

Gobber's shout echoed behind you, "Get back, damn it!" but he stumbled, falling forward as he reached for you, his peg leg sinking into the sand.

Stoick's bellow, Astrid's cry, Marta's plea—they all faded, drowned by the thunder of your pulse, the drums of your heart roaring in your skull. You leapt over a smoldering longship spar, its dragon-headed prow charred to ash, and dodged a Viking's corpse. The heat was a living thing, clawing at your face, but you pressed on, screaming Hiccup's name, each cry a jagged sob that tore your throat raw.

The flames began to subside, leaving the Red Death’s form smoldering in its own massive form—groaning in on itself before collapsing, lifeless, its busted body a mountain of scorched scales and oozing wounds. You didn't hesitate, scrambling over its shattered hide, the heat searing your hands as you climbed, your boots slipping on ichor-slick stone.

Stoick and Gobber caught up, their voices hoarse as they joined your desperate search, calling Hiccup's name into the smoke. The nest was a tomb, littered with the dead—a warrior's severed arm clutching a sword up high, another's skull crushed, brain matter smeared on the sand. Your eyes burned, tears carved paths through the grime caking your cheeks, as you searched the inferno's heart for your own, fear and hope warring within, praying to Odin that Hiccup and Toothless still lived.

The fires dwindled, their hungry tongues retreating into embers, leaving the dragons’ nest shrouded in an endless gray sky, a lifeless veil where no sun dared pierce. Soot drifted like mournful flakes, cloaking the shore in silence, soft and silent, blanketing the black sand in a spectral shroud, each flake a whisper of the Norns’ cruel judgment.

The dragon lay dead, its colossal frame a broken mountain, its scorched scales cracked, oozing green ichor that steamed in the cooling air, its maw frozen in a final, silent roar. The island was a tomb, littered with the wreckage of war—corpses strewn like offerings to Hel. A fallen Nadder’s corpse slumped nearby, its throat torn, blood seeping into the earth, its lifeless eyes staring at the soot-choked sky.

You searched frantically, your boots slipping on the slick sand, your voice hoarse from screaming Hiccup’s name, each cry a jagged wound in your throat. Minutes had bled into an eternity, and still, no sign of him or Toothless, the absence a dagger twisting deeper into your gut.

Your chest ached, a hollow void where hope had once burned, and the thought of Hiccup’s death clawed at your soul—if he was gone, what would become of you? The world without him was a page unwritten, a hearth gone cold, and the weight of it threatened to crush you.

Yet you searched, driven by a desperate need to find him, to defy the fates that mocked you with silence. Stoick and Gobber were close, their figures blurred by ash and tears, their own cries for Hiccup echoing yours. Stoick’s shouts, raw and thunderous, struck you like seaxes, each call for his son a plea to Odin that went unanswered.

“Hiccup! My boy!” he roared, his voice breaking, a chieftain reduced to a father’s anguish.

Gobber, exhausted, dragged his peg leg through the debris, his hook scraping against shattered longship timbers, his face streaked with tears he wiped away with a trembling hand. The air was heavy, thick with the reek of despair, and every step you took felt like wading through frozen rivers, your body screaming to stop but your heart refusing to yield.

Then, Stoick’s shouts ceased, a sudden silence that pierced the haze sharper than any blade. You turned, your breath catching, and saw him sprinting toward a shadowed form in the soot, his massive frame moving with a frantic hope that mirrored your own.

You ran after him, heart pounding, tears streaming down your face as Gobber stumbled behind, his grunts of effort mingling with the crunch of sand. There, amidst the wreckage, lay Toothless, his obsidian scales scorched, his wings limp, sprawled like a fallen warrior on the bloodied shore but unbroken.

You gasped, a sob tearing free, your tears cutting paths through the ash on your cheeks as you reached him. Stoick dropped to his knees beside the dragon, his eyes searching frantically, tearing at the broken saddle, the twisted gear, his fingers shaking as he sought his son.

But Hiccup was nowhere—gone, vanished into the same inferno that had claimed the Red Death. Stoick’s shoulders buckled, a titan crumbling, and he fell forward, his sobs wrenching, raw, as if the gods had carved out his heart.

“My son. . .” he choked, his voice a broken whisper, tears streaming into his bloodied beard.

You caught up, your eyes falling on the empty saddle, the shattered stirrups, the gear snapped like brittle bone. The sight struck you like a war hammer, and you grew cold, your blood turning to ice as the truth sank in—Hiccup was gone.

Your hands flew to your face, covering your mouth as a gasp of pain escaped, your body trembling with a grief too vast to contain. Slowly, you sank to your knees, the charred-soft sand yielding beneath you, your head bowing until it touched the ground, your body curling in on itself as sobs tore through you.

Each cry was a shard of glass, cutting deeper, soul screaming against a world without Hiccup, without the boy who’d been your anchor, your fire, your home. Gobber knelt beside you, his own disbelief a heavy shroud, his hand resting on your back, trembling with the weight of his own devastation.

“Not the lad. . .” he whispered, his voice cracking, tears spilling as he stared at the empty saddle, the Godson he’d raised now lost to the flames. The ash felt softer now, a silent elegy, blanketing you all in a grief that choked the air.

One by one, the others approached—Vikings, Marta, the gang—emerging from the haze like ghosts, their forms dented, their faces gaunt with battle’s toll. When they saw you and Stoick, hunched in mourning, Toothless’ still form a testament to loss, they stopped, their silence a collective dirge.

Astrid’s eyes glistened, her jaw tight, a tear cutting through the soot on her cheek. Marta clutched her axe, her braid singed, her lips trembling as she bowed her head. The Vikings stood solemn, their war cries silenced, their hands resting on sword hilts etched with runes, now useless against this sorrow.

The nest was a pyre, the beast corpse a lifeless monument, its wounds steaming in the gray light, but no victory could mend the void Hiccup’s absence carved. You remained on your knees, your sobs a quiet lament, your hands clutching the sand harshly as if it could anchor you to a world where he still lived.

Stoick’s cries softened, his massive frame shaking, and Gobber’s hand tightened on your back, a shared grief binding you in the ash’s mournful fall. The sky above was as lifeless as you felt. Gray and the sun taken away, and the weight of Hiccup’s loss pressed down harder and harder, a wound that bled with every breath, as you mourned the boy you came to love. . .The boy who had flown too close to the stars.

A low groan broke the silence, a faint stir from Toothless, his obsidian, soot covered scales shifting as his eyes fluttered open, glowing faintly in the charred dust-dim light. He watched Stoick closely, his gaze piercing, as if judging the man who’d chained him, who’d driven Hiccup into this inferno to begin with.

Stoick’s voice cracked, a whisper torn from a father’s shattered heart. “Oh, son. . .I did this.”

His words hung heavy, a confession to another he’d lost, laden with guilt that bowed his shoulders. Toothless held his stare, unblinking, until another tear traced Stoick’s weathered cheek, falling into his bloodied beard.

“Oh, son. . .I’m so sorry,” he choked, voice a plea for forgiveness to his boy he loved so dearly.

The dragon’s eyes softened, as if sensing the truth in Stoick’s sorrow, and with a slow, deliberate grace, Toothless unfurled his wings, their singed edges trembling. Beneath them lay Hiccup, unconscious but breathing, his auburn hair matted with ash, his chest rising faintly, cradled in the Night Fury’s embrace like a warrior shielded by Freya’s mercy. The sight was a miracle, a spark of light in the darkness of Hel’s grasp, and Stoick’s shout of Hiccups name shattered the silence, a cry of joy and disbelief that echoed through the air.

You heard nothing, the world muted by the weight of your grief, your silent sobs a relentless tide that drowned all sound. Gobber’s hands shook you, his voice distant, urging you to look, and you lifted your head, your eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Through the haze, you saw Stoick cradling Hiccup, pressing his son’s limp form to his chest, his face buried in Hiccup’s hair as tears streamed anew. You blinked, your mind refusing to believe, certain it was a cruel vision born of despair. Then Stoick’s voice broke through, a triumphant roar that shook the heavens.

“He’s alive! He’s alive! You brought him back alive!” he shouted, his glee a hymn, directed at Toothless, whose gummy smile flickered, weary but proud as he relaxed.

The words pierced your fog, and you sat up, your face a mask of grief, your spirit stuttering back to life by just a small hope as you questioned what you’d heard or if you misheard. Cheers erupted from the Vikings afar—Astrid’s glee, Marta’s sob, the twins' cheers and the Viking’ roars—confirming the impossible: Hiccup lived.

Your head throbbed, a million hammers pounding from within, a headache born of anguish and relief, but you forced yourself to stand, your legs trembling as you staggered toward Stoick and Gobber. Stoick was knelt beside Toothless, his hand resting gently on the dragon’s snout, his voice soft with gratitude.

“Thank you for saving my son,” he said, his touch reassuring the Night Fury that the rift between them was mended, that all would be well.

Gobber, wiping his eyes, managed a shaky grin. “Well, most of him,” he quipped, his voice thick with relief, a spark of his old humor breaking through the sorrow.

You reached Stoick’s side, your breath catching as you saw Hiccup for yourself—his chest rising, his face pale but alive, his gear battered but his spirit unbroken. A laugh, half-sob, burst from your lips, raw and unrestrained, and Stoick’s hand found your arm, a knowing gesture that anchored you in the moment.

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you brushed Hiccup’s hair from his eyes, the familiar strands soft beneath your touch, a lifeline to the boy who’d been your heart’s compass. Tears fell anew, cutting fresh paths through the soot on your face, but these were tears of joy, of a miracle wrested from the jaws of death. Stoick rose, lifting Hiccup gently, his massive arms cradling his son like a treasure reclaimed from the sea.

Toothless stirred resting his head, his wings folding as he watched Hiccup, his loyalty undying. You stood beside Stoick, your hand lingering near Hiccup’s, heart swelling with a love that had endured this crucible of a war. The ash settled, the gray sky softening, and though the cost of battle scarred the shore, a small streak of sunlight found its way through.

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

#chapter 11 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte

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inkformyblood · 5 months ago

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moonlight reflection (SVSSS)

Pre-Relationship Shen Yuan x Shen Jiu, Canon Universe, Canon Divergence (SJ is SY's reflection) (prev)

Shen Qingqiu flicks his fan out in front of his face, regarding Shen Yuan beneath the pinch of his lashes. His reflection in the wavering surface of the pond stretches out further than he typically can in the confines of standard mirrors, the gleam of Xiu Ya, and there’s a bite of satisfaction in his eyes, the very edge of his sharp grin. “This master is delighted that his instruction is not going to waste.”

“They were amazing.” Shen Yuan’s hands ache, the matching bloodless pulse of pain in his thighs. His body may be used to this level of exertion—barely, given the reputation the Shen Qingqiu had pruned and maintained—but Shen Yuan is not. His thoughts trip over the torn silk from his robes, the splash of moonlight across the bank of the pond that stops at the pile of tangled limbs and thick fur; the flash of Shen Qingqiu’s gaze peering past the now-tangled braid they wear to track their passage.

“And what—“ Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan closed, resting it against his lower lip as he speaks. “—does your floating box say?” His gaze isn’t focused on Shen Yuan, deliberately tilted in the close quarters to his left. The system bounces merrily to Shen Yuan’s right, unconcerned, the typical message of ‘Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations’ drifting from corner to corner.

Shen Yuan leans closer to the surface of the pond, the dry grass rustling against his legs and scratching his exposed skin. Shen Qingqiu mimics the movement, ethereally graceful even when inflicted with Shen Yuan’s shortcomings, studying him like an ant that had crawled onto his boot. The added height only adds to the illusion, the moonlight catching on the water until Shen Qingqiu shines.

“The floating box didn’t tell me anything. Is it so hard to believe that I know about Giant Moon Wolves all by myself?”

Shen Qinqiu scoffs, the drag of his gaze slow and deliberate, as he rakes it over Shen Yuan. “If this master didn’t know better, he would have thought you had been brawling in the street with those brutes.”

‘Those brutes’ could cover any variety of people from their shared martial siblings to the vast sprawl of everyday people their conjoined lives brush against. Shen Yuan takes his best guess regardless.

“This student hopes his master would be aware that if they were sparring with Bai Zhan Peak students, then he would be as exactingly devastating as would be befitting a master of Qing Jing Peak.”

Shen Qinqiu doesn’t laugh, but the edges of his gaze soften, his head inclined slightly to one side. He folds his hands in his lap, the torn hem of his robes only transforming the action into a deliberate work of art. “Better.”

Shen Yuan grins, relaxing the tight threads of control pierced through his lips, the pinch of his brow, just for a moment. Everything had taken adjustment, a pot forced to contain far more than it had ever been meant to handle, but they had settled into an uneasy equilibrium, Shen Yuan piloting their body through the world and Shen Qingqiu, his judgemental beautiful reflection.

“List the properties of the pelts for this master,” Shen Qingqiu says. He’s uncharacteristically relaxed in the reflection, his fan folded and resting against his cheek, moonlight dappling across his skin and turning his eyes pale.

Shen Yuan clasps his hands in his lap, his shoulders square. He can’t see his own reflection with Shen Qingqiu wearing their face so he has no way of knowing the devout gleam that settles over his features, a student worshipping at an altar he built with blood and tears. “The pelts of the Giant Moon Wolves are unique for their colouration, typically being shades of pale grey that is close to silver, and for their cultivation properties. It is thought—and this is only partially correct—that wearing the pelt for nine days will steady an unstable core.”

Shen Yuan pauses, looking out across the surface of the lake and letting his vision blur. Like this, the world fragments into shards of bisected silver and he could almost be back in his world, shivering slightly in the early evening chill as he bleeds his intention through his phone, his rage at the sheer potential lost in the chapter update of Proud Immortal Demon Way. “It’s the blood of the wolf that offers the greatest benefit and drawback as it’s highly toxic when untreated. Exposure can stabilise a core but it could also—“

A beep of warning echoes from the System, Shen Yuan turning towards it. There’s a moment as he stares at the words without understanding them, text splayed over the screen in bold letters.

Mandatory Quest ‘It’s Behind You’ activated.

The grass rustles behind him, the immediate heavy press of eyes locked onto his back, the fragrant evening air sour with rotting meat. No time to move, barely enough time to breathe, and Shen Yuan turns to Shen Qingqiu. He doesn’t know why, only that he’s glad he isn’t dying alone this time.

Silver blurs past him, sharp enough to slice the air and the sound isn’t a scream, it’s a snarl, the sound of furious desperation that rips from a human throat and leaves blood behind. The wolf is huge, the coat dark in the shadows that cling to, and it howls as the disembodied hands claw at its face, thumbs pressed through the soft swell of its eyes. It’s a messy kill, wretched and final.

“Don’t move.”

Shen Yuan obeys, his gaze locked on the gently steaming maw of the dead wolf, blood splattered across it’s teeth. Shen Qingqiu draws the messy braid free, carding spectral fingers through it. He works carefully, barely tugging at the tangles as he weaves the strands back together.

“Now, this student is presentable,” Shen Qinqiu murmurs as his touch falls away. In the pond, he peers around the edge of the fan, a smear of blood over the curve of his thumb.

#svsss #scumcum #jiuyuan #shen jiu #shen yuan #shen qingqiu #original shen qingqiu #my writing #fanfic

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bellaveux · 2 years ago

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kiss of a vampire | w. maximoff

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: injured and alone, wanda finds herself out in the middle of the night, searching for the one person she can trust to help her. on that night, you find out what she truly is.

content warnings: 18+ minors dni. vampire!wanda, human!reader, victorian era, blood, very tiny mentions of homophobia, loss of virginity (?), smut! making out, biting, marking?, soft sex, fingering and oral (r receiving), praising

wc: 3.9k

note: surprise this is my singular contribution for kinktober hehe, happy halloween everyone!

Fall of 1863 in New York was more or less an uneventful time of the year for you. Your mother insists you read as many books as you can find in the manor’s library, and your father insists you go out and attend all those fancy balls and infernal tea parties—all in an effort to make you more presentable for any of your future suitors. It made sense for them to do so. Your mother was a respectable woman in the town, and she married your father, a man of riches, all thanks to that company he founded many years ago. You could honestly care less, not really having to do anything but read your books all day. Occasionally, in the evening when the sun has already set and you got too fed up with turning pages, you went out for a walk down that nice, pebbled trail through the woods, leading you down to that stone bridge over the river.

That’s where you met her. Wanda.

The moon was out. The sun was gone. She didn’t wear a fancy dress like you did the first time you saw her. She wore an unbuttoned vest over her white, well-made dress shirt, black pants, and riding boots to match. Her hair was red, and for a moment, you thought her eyes were the same color. It went away when you blinked, and suddenly, her eyes were green. You had never seen a woman like her before, much less someone similar in town. All the ladies and their voluminous skirts really only had boys, and gossip filled their daily conversations. It was tiring to be around them, but being with Wanda was relieving.

She told stories. Of adventures. Of distant lands you could barely imagine. She’d tell you about the sea, the moon, and the world beyond this little town you lived in. You found solace during your time with her, and you began to look forward to your walks through the woods every evening you could. She’s always there. Like she knows everything… She was your friend. And each time you met her, your heart beat faster than you’d like to admit, and your stomach fluttered whenever you thought about her. You always wondered, does she feel the same? You supposed you’d never find out, because who in their right mind would confess to having feelings for another woman?

Forbidden. Unthinkable. Criminal. That’s what they would say about you. So, you stayed quiet.

During the latest hours of the night, sometimes you’d see the glow of torches outside your window. You hear the noises first. A woman screaming. Pitchforks and shovels thrown up in the air, metal and iron clinking against each other. The sounds of arrows cracking through wood. Monsters, your father would say. They lurk out in the night, waiting and waiting until they come up to their prey and kill… You’ve heard the stories of those vampires, wolves, demons or whatever it is they are. You found it hard to believe. Even more so that so many people are afraid of what they probably haven’t even seen.

But then you see Wanda again. Not on your walk through the woods. Not on the bridge. A quiet knock is what you hear first. You look up from your book in surprise, then see her outside your window, clutching her shoulder in pain. She’s seated on the edge of your window on the other side of the glass, giving you a weak smile despite seeing how confused and worried you were. You rushed over and opened the window immediately, telling her to get in—of course, after you yelled—or whispered, really—at her for showing up at this ungodly hour.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” You exclaimed as you pulled her into your room.

But the moment she winced in pain, you immediately pulled your hands back, afraid that you might have hurt her. You watch her move to lean against the wall underneath the window. She sighs in relief, still clutching her shoulder. Your gaze falls to her hand, right where you see the stains of red seeping through her dress shirt.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding…” You think out loud, carefully watching her as you hold your breath.

The faint glow of torches outside your window shows up in the corner of your eye—people bustling loudly in your street. You could see Wanda duck even further beneath your window, staring up at the ceiling as you began to put two and two together.

“No…” You shake your head and take a few steps back. “You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you?”

Wanda’s gaze softened as she turned to you. Her mouth opened for a moment to say something, but she sighed and laughed sheepishly to herself as she shook her head. Then, you see it in her smile.

She looked up at you again, with those kind and caring eyes you’ve seen on her from the moment you met her, “Please, don’t be afraid of me.”

“Your teeth…”

“I know,” she nodded. “But, I need your help. Please. I’m begging you.”

You didn’t know what to do. “Wanda.”

“They’ll come after me if you tell me to leave, (Y/n),” she reasoned, leaning up to show you she was telling the truth.

“Did you… Have you killed someone?” You could barely get it out.

“No!” She said, “I-I haven’t hurt anyone, I promise you! I-It’s my brother. I’ve been looking for him. He’s…”

“He’s what?”

Wanda sighs and turns away from you in shame. “He’s hungry. We… We haven’t eaten in weeks. He’s got a bigger appetite than I do… I-It’s harder to control him. I think he might’ve hurt someone tonight.”

You stare at her. Her eyes were red now. Her breathing was heavy. Her fangs darted out slightly past her parted lips. You take a second to process what she had just told you. And in truth, you should’ve been scared. You should have been throwing her out of the manor, calling for your father to deal with such a monster.

But to you, she was still… just Wanda. If she wanted to kill you, you’d imagine she’d already done it by now.

You left for a moment to head into your washroom in the corner your room where you tried to find all of the medical supplies you currently had. It wasn’t much—a wet rag, a few bandage wraps, and a kit for stitches. You returned with all the items in your arms, and Wanda looked up at you with a thankful smile.

You sat on the floor with her, your white nightgown bunching up against the wooden paneling. “I… I have bandages—”

Wanda shook her head, looking down to avoid your eyes. “Thank you… But, that won’t help.”

“What will?”

Her eyes bore into yours, but her mouth doesn’t move. She has that look on her face that tells you she's too embarrassed to say or ask for it. Her hands squeezed her shoulder in pain, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Tell me, Wanda.” You say firmly, your gaze unwavering, and for a second, you thought she was intimidated by you. She was, in truth, because of her feelings for you.

“Blood.”

You pause. Then, she repeats it again.

“Blood will… replenish my energy. I haven’t eaten, so I’m weak. On a good day, this wound would not even phase me.”

“My blood?”

Wanda nods. Your prolonged silence tells her that there is no way in hell you’d allow her. Her love for you has her hoping for the best outcome—that you’d have mercy on her and help her relieve the pain. But then again, you don’t owe her anything, and this was a lot to ask. The idea of asking felt impossible even though Wanda had already mentioned it, worried that you might refuse or be horrified by the notion.

“Okay.”

She blinks at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. As long as you don’t turn me into a vampire or anything. I don’t mean it to offend you, but it would... complicate things.”

She nods once again, more eagerly this time. “You don’t have to worry about that. That’s, um… That’s a completely different process.”

“Okay,” you repeat, scooting closer to her, looking down at your dress and your hands as you begin to wonder if you should get a knife. “I-I’m not sure how to… do this.”

“Your neck.” She tells you. Of course.

You don’t ignore the way her red eyes darken and the way her ears perk up in excitement as you move your hair carefully to one side.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Wanda’s gaze softened at your words, “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

She watches you nod and holds her breath as she inches closer to you. Your sweet scent fills her nose with a much stronger fragrance than ever before. She has always loved the way you smelled. It soothed her in ways many other things couldn’t. It was divine, enveloping her senses each time she was near you, and she found herself utterly addicted. She had never been this close before tonight, her breath tickling the side of your neck. She could hear your heart beating fast as she moved closer.

You braced yourself, your heart pounding in anticipation for the expected pain of a vampire’s hungry bite. But it didn’t come. Instead, you felt Wanda’s soft, warm lips meet your skin, kissing it so gently in a way that sent shivers down your spine. You could feel her other hand, resting itself on the curve of your waist. Your breath caught in your throat, and your lips parted slightly as Wanda continued to press her mouth to your skin, littering your neck with the softest kisses she could possibly give you. You couldn’t help but notice the frailty and gentleness of her touches and her kisses, as if they were delicate and almost fragile.

Wanda was lost in the feeling of your skin. Every kiss left her craving for more, and she found herself losing control of the overwhelming desire she had been suppressing for so long.

You were so distracted by the soft kisses she left on you that you barely noticed the faint, almost imperceptible sensation of Wanda’s fangs piercing your skin. She was so gentle, and you expected much less when she had promised, but this… It felt too good. A moan slips past your lips as Wanda bites into you. Her first taste of your blood was nothing short of divine. So sweet. So warm. The most delicious thing she had ever put her mouth on. The flavor of you was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and it sent shivers of pleasure coursing through Wanda’s body. Every second that passed as she drank from you, Wanda began to feel her weakened body begin to mend itself. It was as if your blood had breathed life back into her. Wanda’s senses sharpened, and she felt a profound sense of rejuvenation. The pain in her shoulder began to fade away.

Wanda pulled away from your neck, running her tongue softly against the bite, before turning to look at you. The prettiest thing she ever laid her eyes on.

And Wanda couldn’t resist. She pressed her lips gently against yours and sighed against you. You gasp at the feeling as she places her hands over your waist, then down to your hips, pulling you closer against her. A soft moan falls from your mouth and into hers, and Wanda can’t help but groan. She swiped her tongue on your bottom lip, and naturally, you opened up for her, letting her in to explore the expanse of your mouth, the slight taste of iron on her tongue.

Your lips were parted slightly, and your eyelids felt heavy. But you started to feel weak and lightheaded. You found yourself leaning towards Wanda’s touch, unable to hold yourself up without tipping over, and the next thing you knew, she gently scooped you up and carried you to her bed with her mouth still pressed against yours. Kissing you became the next addicting thing for her. Wanda hovered over you as she laid you down on your back.

She pulled away from the kiss and smiled softly, “You’re so beautiful.”

Her lips traveled down to your neck once more, kissing your skin softly as she felt your arms wrap around her neck. This time, you feel it when she bites you again, unable to stop the moan that escapes your mouth. Wanda smiled as she continued to drink softly from you, her hand reaching up behind your dress to pull at the string that was holding your nightgown together as you arch your back and pressed your front against her. Your dress comes loose with a simple tug, and your cheeks flush, a deep shade of red donning your face as you feel Wanda’s hand cupping and groping your breast over the fabric.

After she pulls away, Wanda kisses your skin again, her lips traveling further south and her face coming up in between your plush breasts. She moans against you, your scent filling her nose in the most addicting way. She could smell you. How aroused you were. How wet you were. And tonight, despite all that you’ve given her, she was feeling a little greedy.

“I want you. I want to make you feel good,” she tells you, her voice all breathy against your skin. “I want to touch you.”

“Please,” you begged her, running your hands in her hair as she began to pull the dress off of you, agonizingly slowly.

When your body comes into full view, Wanda can’t help but stare. She mutters a curse under her breath before letting her fingertips run along your stomach, your nipples, your hips, and your thighs, and Wanda feels like she’s in heaven.

“Stop staring,” you say, pouting shyly as the vampire continues to ogle you.

She only smiles, fangs darting past her lips, “I can’t, angel. You look so pretty like this.”

Wanda leans down to litter your skin with wet kisses and small bruises. She eventually makes her way down to your legs, holding your plush thighs in her hands, and she kisses you, running her tongue over each part that she kisses. You allowed her to spread your knees apart, exposing your glistening sex to her shyly as she leans over, her kisses traveling closer and closer to your wet core.

“Spread your legs wider,” she said, unable to take her eyes off of you.

You do as she says, your hands now gripping your bedsheets slightly. Her fingers make their way in between your folds, softly touching your opening. She lets them move up and down, collecting your slick and spreading it all over, down in between and up to your clit, where she presses slightly harder against your bundle of nerves. She sees you when you bite your lip to stop a moan from falling past your lips. Wanda smiled at the sight. Her love bites are littered all over your skin; the bite on your neck looked more delicious than ever, and your pretty face looked up at her like she was the only one who could ever make you feel like this. Hell, it drives her crazy.

With a new sense of determination, Wanda finally slips her cold finger into you, your tight and warm walls wrapping around her digit. She sighs and leans forward to lay her head against your tummy, watching closely as she pushes her finger in, then pulling out with a squelch.

“You’re so wet for me,” she thinks aloud.

She groans, listening to the delicious sounds of your softest whimpers as she fingers you. Another finger slips inside of you, pulling them in and out of your pussy at a faster pace. Your breathing got heavy. You could feel your stomach getting tighter, but before you could come undone, Wanda pressed her thumb to your clit, working you up to your orgasm. Her fingers are long, and she can’t help but add another one into your tight, dripping sex. Her other hand holds your quivering thigh down as you tremble against her.

“W-Wanda, I’m—”

Your mouth falls open at the feeling of being filled up with her fingers. She’s much faster now, curling her fingers into your walls sloppily as she continues to press your clit, pushing you closer and closer to your high. And then, it comes. Wanda travels up and kisses you, swallowing your moans as you fall apart on her fingers, cumming all over her hand. Your back arched and your legs jerked closed as she pushed your legs back open.

Wanda carefully pulls her fingers out of you, but she doesn’t stop rubbing your clit, making you shiver against her. She rubs it in tight circles as her kisses travel back down to your neck, where she takes another greedy bite into your skin, welcoming the taste of your divine blood into her mouth once again. She groans when you pull her hair slightly, getting drunk off of your essence and the way your hands feel on her head.

When she pulls away, she kisses you again. And when she pulls away for a third time, she makes her way down your body, traveling through the valley of your breasts, over your stomach, and then her destination—back in between your legs. Her nose nuzzles against your clit, your scent filling her senses all over again.

“W-Wait, Wanda this is…”

You had never done this before. And now that Wanda was face to face with your glistening pussy, you got shy. Wanda only looks up at you and smiles, pressing gentle kisses along your inner thigh.

“I want you,” she reminds you, pulling you closer to her face. “I want to be the first one that makes you feel good. I want it to be me. Only me. Inside of you. I want to see how pretty you’ll look when I have my mouth on you.”

She says it so absentmindedly, her eyes not leaving the sight of your pussy as she spreads your lips apart with her thumbs. You couldn’t help but blush at her words, your face getting hotter each time you felt her breath on your pussy. You felt like time was ticking so slowly, with Wanda staring at you for what felt like hours. You grew tense with anticipation, waiting and waiting for her to do something. And when she finally does, your jaw drops, and a silent moan falls from your mouth. Wanda memorizes every little noise you make, the way you arch your back, or the twitch of your thigh.

She was in heaven. Your inner thighs glistened with arousal as she held you down against your bed, noting the way your hands made their way back to her red hair. Your body was a hot, trembling mess right underneath her as she devoured you, licking every space she could reach with her tongue.

When Wanda looks up and sees your mouth wide open in silent screams, arching your back off of the mattress, your soft hand tugging at her locks in a pitiful attempt to slow her down, she knows you’re close. She grew desperate. She keeps licking you, eager to get you closer and closer to your climax. You’re chanting her name as quietly as you can, eyes closed shut as the pleasure keeps building and building inside of you.

“Wanda, I-I’m about to—”

You whimpered, your legs closing around Wanda’s head. She hummed into your pussy and continued to eat you out right as you came into her mouth. She ran her tongue through your folds and over your clit softly, easing you through your orgasm with a satisfied moan. Wanda practically forced herself away from your sex, wishing for nothing but more time with you. She pulled back and sat on her legs to stare at the beauty right in front of her. She rubbed your soft thighs in soothing circles with her hands as she smiled down at you. You trembled slightly, still shaking from the orgasm she had given you.

You reached out to her, your weak arms lifting from the bed, wanting to be in her embrace again. She obliged happily, leaning down to hover over you once again. Wanda kissed you up your neck, to your jaw, and, lastly, to your lips, the taste of you still lingering on her tongue. She moaned against you and smiled into the kiss when she felt your hands slide from her neck to cup her face.

Then, you remembered.

You pushed her away softly, just so you could look at the blood stain on her shirt, where an arrow had struck her earlier tonight.

“I’m okay, now,” you heard her say.

Running a slow and gentle hand over her shoulder, you took a peek, pulling the fabric down a little bit to see her wound, but nothing was there.

“It’s gone,” you said in awe.

Wanda smiled softly at you as you continued to inspect her shoulder. You looked so beautiful. So unafraid of her. And it made her the happiest woman on Earth. She sighs and leans down to pepper a few kisses on your cheek, still surprised by her healing abilities. But you got distracted again, feeling her soft lips against your skin. The light of a candle on your night table danced across the room as she kissed you. Wanda was so gentle. Like she promised.

After a moment, Wanda turned to look out your bedroom window, where she had come in. Her senses immediately took notice of how quiet it was and how dark it was outside. The night embraced the world outside of your bedroom, blackness stretching as far as her eye could see. It was different from the warmth she felt in this sim room—a room with you, her love. It reminded her of the world and now, the secrets you both carried together.

Your voice pulled her out of your thoughts. “You have to go, don’t you?”

Wanda smiled, knowing you already knew the answer to your own question. “Your mother would throw a fit if they found me here.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes at the thought, smiling sadly as you begin to play with the fabric of her shirt.

“I’ll come see you again, angel. I promise you.”

“Tomorrow?” You ask, looking up at her with hopeful eyes.

Wanda turned her attention back to you, and her heart skipped a beat. You were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Unable to stop herself, she leaned down and kissed you once more.

“Tomorrow,” she said firmly.

With one final, lingering kiss on your lips, Wanda whispered three little words. Then, with a graceful and silent movement, she made her way over to the window through which she had entered. Wanda disappeared into the night, leaving the room she made love to you in. You lay in bed, contentment washing over you as a soft smile played on your lips. She was different from the stories you’d hear about vampires. People called them monsters, and even though you only knew Wanda, she was miles and miles away from being one.

You missed her already.

But just as she promised, you saw her again the next day. This time, with more kisses and closer encounters.

— navigation!

#bellaveux writes!#happy halloweeeeeeen #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #marvel x reader #vampire!wanda maximoff #marvel #elizabeth olsen x reader #mcu x reader #avengers x reader #elizabeth olsen #fanfic #vampire #halloween #kinktober

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verystrxxwberry · 1 year ago

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We need more ML Content on god 😭🙏

MOONLIGHT LOVERS routes as your partners!

♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: fluff, only routes, comfort, them as your partners (individual headcanons). ↝ 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Of course, and my pleasure to give more ML content! I decided to do the relationship hcs for them as to match it with the Eldarya ones. I hope you enjoy them!

♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•. ♪¸¸.•*¨*•.

AARON

Compliments. Aaron is an honest speaker when it comes to his feelings and thoughts. You are going to feel loved thanks to the infinite words he uses to show his love for you. He’s gonna use any single opportunity he has to remind you how beautiful you are as well, no matter if you just woke up, if you came out of the shower, if you are all sweaty… He’d tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and mutter how good looking you are that day. His hands are warm and big, even though they are callous.

Hands. Talking about his big and pretty hands, the way they touch is the most delicate way ever. His thumb will caress your cheek when he cups it, his fingers will caress your back up and down when you are offering him your back in a sign of trust… he’d hold your hand in a gentle manner as if you were a fragile glass.

Manners. He guides you through the forest, using his hand to make sure you don’t slip due to the wet floor or any rock. Or whenever you are both going out, he’s gonna keep the door open for you. You’re never walking through dangerous places if he is there, he’s not gonna allow it as he will make sure you’re safe and in front of him so he doesn’t lose you at any moment.

The same goes for those moments when he has to suck your blood. He will definitely bring water and sugar with him in case you feel bad once he drinks from your blood. He is aware of his bites being hurtful due to his hybrid condition, so that’s why he is extra gentle with you when he has to do it. He normally takes blood from your wrist or collarbone, and will always ask first, no doubt. He can control his instincts as if he is an old vampire, still when he is in heat season or there is a full moon, he can’t help it but feel more attracted to the scent of your blood.

Attentive. Thanks to the time he spent with his pack of wolves, he developed into a natural caring role for him. He notices any slight change on your scent, on the taste of your blood, on your expression, on your voice. He is well equipped with kindness, patience and empathy. He is a good listener and an honest advisor.

Communicative. Since Aaron likes to talk about his honest thoughts and intentions whenever he is going to act, you will be the first one who he will tell about it, and probably the only one. In your relationship with him you will find no problem with communication. He has no taboo, he doesn’t cut a bit when he talks. If you are overthinking something, he will make sure he can reassure you with the truth instead of letting your mind create cruel theories. He likes to listen, but he also likes to talk.

And he actually can talk a lot when he is relaxed and comfortable. Whenever you two go on a walk in the forest, he’d open up to talk about his past with you and many historical things he literally was able to experience because bro has been alive for centuries. He also talks passionately about the things he loves, and it is completely adorable when he gets into that mood.

Lots of forehead kisses.

Pet names: Honey, dear, babe and simply your name. And sometimes he’d spontaneously said some spanish pet names for you (cielo, cariño, bebé and definitely mi vida)

BELIATH

You might believe that he doesn’t take your relationship seriously but he does. He is the kind of guy to use a lot of dark humor and take everything with a laugh, but when it comes to you, he makes sure that his words can have a positive impact on you.

Physical affection. His way of showing love is definitely being close around you. He isn’t as clingy as you might think, but he likes to rest his hand on your shoulder, over your hand, or simply play with your hair. You’d feel spontaneous kisses on your head, or small massages to your shoulders.

Moondance. Even if you don’t want to go, he will still go to make company for Ethan. But do not worry, he is not interested in any lustful thing with any other person that isn’t you. Beliath thought that he’d never get into a relationship, and he’d thought that he would never be capable of loving someone. But guess what? You changed that. You are his lovely human and he is grateful that you are the one teaching him how to love. He might be a goofy silly man, but he respects the ones he loves and you are the first one he respects. Also, he’d be happy if you joined him to the Moondance! He’d have a dancing mate then, and if you wish to, he’d be there to sit on the bar and talk as you two drink something.

He is physically incapable of getting drunk with human alcohol, as it is weak for him. If you wish to drink, he’d simply say that once in a while it doesn’t hurt, but moderately. He knows that humans can get addicted to alcohol, and he wants to avoid you getting into that loop of unhealthiness. Although it is your choice, he will take care of you whenever you get drunk.

You are invited to join him to party. He’ll stay close to you to make sure that you are alright and safe.

If you are the type of person who gets anxious about going to parties and simply does not like them, that’s valid. He will return back to bed quietly, when the sun is about to set. If he finds you awake, he will explain to you all the gossip he found out during the night. If you are sleeping, he’s gonna admire you for a few minutes until he finally gets to embrace you and sleep.

Expect him to share all of his gossip with you. He knows EVERYTHING about everyone somehow. Even about people he never interacted with. (Kinda hard because he is a social butterfly)

Shopping center dates! He is a good advisor when it comes to fashion, and he has a skill to pick the things that fit you the best. And of course he’d help you to find something comfortable for you. You’d be stunning for him anyway, but if it’s a little bit old fashioned, he’ll definitely tease you just as he teases Vladimir…

He’s the type of person that anytime you’re going to kiss his cheek, he tilts his head a little so it falls right on his lips.

When it comes to drinking your blood, he knows to control his instincts and hunger for it. He is a succubus so he can get the energy through intimacy or your blood. He was born being a vampire, so he has grown up knowing how much he can make his desires wait. He won’t drink of it until he truly feels weak, but he isn’t a weak man. His bites are kinda hurtful because his fangs are pretty sharp and long, and he generally uses his powers so you don’t have to feel much pain in case you are too sensitive. He will ask you if you want that though. The neck is the best spot for him -if not the thighs-

Pet names: Always will be calling you baby, and sometimes sweetheart.

VLADIMIR

Little dates. He would be too embarrassed to confess that he is actually a soft man when he is around you, and he loves to enjoy quality time with you. So he’d like to invite you to romantic dinners with candles, only the two of you and a quiet environment as you enjoy each others’ presence. If you like writing, there will definitely be writing dates!

He’s pretty serviceable and formal. He would remove his jacket and give it to you to wear if you’re cold. If it’s raining, he’d hold open an umbrella for you. If you need more pillows to sleep, he’d gladly place them under your head.

Even though during sleeping time his arm is gonna be your pillow, there is no discussion.

Flowers. This goes if you aren’t allergic to pollen… He’d give you some of the most precious flowers he has in his garden in a small bucket. He’d trust you so much to let you be near his flowers and take care of them, he’d even teach you how to do it properly with will and happiness about someone interested in his interests.

Letters. He is ashamed of saying cute stuff at first, so whenever you wake up alone in bed during the first months of the relationship, you’d find love letters on the nightstand. He writes how he feels into words so you’re always updated. He might be secretive with his speech, but he certainly loves you as he never loved anyone before. He uses certain words from his era which meanings behind them are more powerful than you may imagine.

He’s prone to negative emotions which causes him to isolate himself for a long while until he feels better again. He doesn’t want to ask for it, but during that time he needs you the most. The authority he always carries on his shoulders completely disappears and he gets into a vulnerable and depressive mode. He may be hostile towards the other residents, but simply because he doesn’t want them to realize that he is actually someone sensitive (they know it tho). So the moment you get to his side as he is feeling like this, he’d press his head against your belly and stay there until his anxiety and negative thoughts disappear.

Caress his scalp, play with his hair… he has been for centuries without receiving genuine love. Ah, and do not expect less from him. He is truly romantic and clingy the moment you two are alone in bed. He likes hugs and even more to be able to hold you as you sleep.

And please, this man is absolutely stunning. He has delicate and pretty features, he looks like a prince. Any compliment you give him he’s gonna become a blushing mess, because he is that kind of handsome being who is unable to see his own beauty. He’d roll his eyes and tell you to not speak lies, since the only one whose beauty is comparable with a rose is yours.

Deep inside he is truly happy that you have chosen him to offer him your heart. He will take care of it as he takes care of his flowers.

He can be possessive over you though. But he is aware that it isn’t because of you doing anything wrong, it is just about his own insecurities which he will do his best to fix. But I’m sorry, everyone has flaws and his flaw is to be possessive…

Drinking blood is an intimate thing for him, so expect him to do it when you two are going to sleep. He generally likes to give little kisses to your neck and then bite deep down on it. He makes it slow but makes his hands to caress other spots of your body meanwhile, so you don’t have to mainly focus on the pain.

Pet names: When you are in public, do not expect him to say anything cute. He will simply call you by your name. But in private he’ll call you sweetheart, my beloved, my dearest with that elegant British accent (I may be simping a little rn) which spits royalty with each letter.

RAPHAEL

Quality of time. He doesn’t really mind how you both spend your time as long as he feels your presence around him. That means that there will be constant dates in the library in which both of you would be reading different books. He’d pick interest in listening to your comments or reactions to certain books, and as you gasp in surprise when the MC does something so unsettling, he’d be chuckling softly and asking you what’s wrong.

God he absolutely loves listening to your voice, your breathing, your laugh. There is something about your voice that makes all his problems disappear and his mind is at complete peace. He tilts his head towards the direction of your voice and pays attention to every single one of your words. He’s an active listener and as you talk he will make questions or add comments to show his genuine interest for you.

Words of affirmation. He is very talkative when it comes to his interests, but also expresses his love for you. You will hear him doing small oral poems to compliment the scent of your hair, or the softness of your skin, or the warmth of your touch. He is open about what he needs, and he normally lets you know that he needs your hugs to pull you into his lap for some cuddles.

Loving kisses. Those moments in which you get to sit on his lap, he gives soft and innocent kisses to your shoulders and nape, as he keeps his arms wrapped around your waist. Whenever he is around you he likes to give spontaneous kisses to you. Even when the others are around, he doesn’t mind giving subtle kisses to your hand. He is not secretive about his relationship, simply private. He won’t hide his affection in front of others but won't be clingy or needy.

Sleeping time. When it’s time to sleep, he truly adores being your small spoon. He genuinely searches for comfort and love with your touch. He has been through a lot in his life, and the only thing he wants is to have a stable period in his life. Feeling his back pressed against your chest as he sleeps makes him feel genuinely protected and it feels the happiness of his inner child.

Baths together! He actually will allow you to undress him in a sign of trust. More than once he’d wander his hands all through your body to imagine your shape in his mind. And damn, he adores doing so. He absolutely adores the confidence and intimacy he can get to have with you.

Raphael is truly a nice man who will make sure that you can learn to love yourself as the relationship lasts, because you are truly stunning!

His bites are always consented and you will even have to offer him because he kinda feels guilty of doing it. He actually likes to take it from your shoulder or neck, but of course, always knowing your opinion. If you offer any other place, he’ll accept. Luckily his bites aren’t as painful as the others’.

Pet names: He has no problem calling you sweet things in front of others. It’s not with the intention of letting others know that you are his partner, but simply because he is completely used to call you like that. He calls you hun, darling, sweetie… he actually uses a lot.

ETHAN

Touch starved. At the beginning of the relationship he found it hard to show his affection through his touch, but he craves to be touched. He might not start it, but he will give subtle signs that he desires to cuddle with you at the moment. Once he gets the knowledge that you like certain touches, he will give them to you. He adores when you cup his face and caress his jaw, you will have him melting at the moment.

His arm is always wrapped around your shoulders, no exception.

He’s bringing you to McDonald’s after going to Moondance, and if you wish, he will even bring you to eat them at some hidden place in the town he somehow knows. And yeah… Ethan is the typical dude who knows the weirdest places of the town and randomly offers to go explore them.

Ethan desires to love and to be loved. He loved a very few times in his life, and when he loves, he is intense and loyal. Beliath always teases him for being so cheesy, and even Ivan calls him simp… and yes he is.

Inside jokes. Ethan is pretty funny and has a dark sense of humor, and he will include you as a partner in crime to tease others. He will gossip about other people to you and whenever there is a reference made around you two which had been mentioned before, he looks at you with an unserious face and soon you two burst out laughing. Or sometimes he’d even say stuff only you would understand.

Vladimir has hit you both with the walking stick more than once to cease the laughing because he didn’t understand if you were laughing at him or what (and you indeed were).

You are his weak spot. He can’t say no to you. You don’t have to try too hard with begging, just as you ask for something, he is giving it to you.

He’d kill for you if you ever asked.

Gives you his jacket. At the minimum he sees you are cold, he is placing his jacket on you. He is a big guy and his jacket will be big to you, so he finds it adorable. And the way he stares at you is filled with love, admiring completely how good you look on it.

He shares his food with you and that is enough to say that he loves you deeply.

When it comes to drinking your blood, he does it casually. His bites aren’t as hurtful as others as he knows the better places to handle the pain. He doesn’t like to use his powers on you to make it lighter or use some kind of medicine so it hurts less. He will fill you with kisses afterwards.

He has nightmares when he sleeps, and will cry your name during his sleep. He keeps having memories of the war he lived and there is a constant fear of losing the ones he cares about. If he lose you or Beliath, he’d be completely lost in this life. More than once he will wake up screaming, probably near a panic attack. Seeing you with him is definitely the most relieving thing for him.

Beliath is the couple therapist whenever you two need it. And he actually is almost a part of your relationship, not in terms of intimacy, but wherever you two go somewhere, he will ask “may I join??? :3333”

No one can change my mind that this dude has knowledge about how to ride a motorcycle, and he will take you on late night motorcycle rides. He loves it simply because he knows he’s gonna feel you gripping on his waist desperate as he increases the speed, laughing at you when you yell at him for it.

Pet names: He only uses “babe” and other pet names in Finnish mainly.

IVAN

Best friend and boyfriend. People will literally wonder if you are truly dating as the treatment isn’t really a clingy one. He literally hits your arm or nape (not painfully, dw) in joke, he mocks you whenever you pronounce a word incorrectly, he teases you at the minimum… He has the behavior of an annoying best friend. And thanks to being comfortable around you, he can perfectly do cringe stuff with no shame.

He is also very open minded and can switch his playful behavior to a serious one whenever you feel like talking deeply about something. If you need to rant or vent, he will listen, but don’t expect any good advice because he is the type to suggest that you punch someone or you even burn their house.

Gaming dates. Ivan managed to get his own phone, hiding it from Vladimir, because what the hell he wanted to have some freedom and fun… He is concerningly good at phone games. You two will be lying on his bed and playing together any random competitive game. As I said before, Ivan basically treats you with a lot of trust so whenever you win he yells and rolls in the bed as he complains. “Oh, fuck! What is this team? Why are they SO bad!?”. It’s funny to see his reactions as he suddenly might sigh and turn off his phone, turning around to sleep (to whine and complaing actually)

Of course he would never get mad at you for winning at any game! After he has cried about it for 20 minutes, he’d hug you and say “well, at least I am proud of being with someone so skilled.”

Whenever he wins he is also going to mock you about it for 20 minutes.

You two got forbidden from playing games when everyone else is sleeping because the volume of your voices got too loud for your own good -Vladimir scolded you two the next day-.

But this also means arcade dates!

Every time you call him any pet name, he needs like 5 minutes to collect his thoughts and know what to answer because his mind is simply thinking about how you called him.

You literally can not get rid of him. You go to the kitchen? He will go with you to get a glass of juice. You go to the couch? Cool, he goes with you. You wanna go outside? He’s gonna whine but he will go.

Do not remind him about the window incident or he is gonna cry and hug you to apologize about it.

Ivan is really insecure about his vampire condition and being able to hurt you. He tries to warn you whenever he starts to feel hungry so you go away, because he is truly afraid of biting you without your consent. His bites are hurtful since he bites with desperation and needs self control with his hunger and his own fangs. He is a young vampire and he can’t control when his fangs appear or to control himself too much.

He asks Aaron help to control himself.

But whenever he is completely conscious, he is gonna be completely gentle with you. And even if he is playful, there is no way he is harming you for real. If he ever did, he’d cry with you.

He dedicates tiktok meme videos to you (sometimes cheesy ones)

Matching!! Necklaces!!

He will give you an earphone so you both can hear music together. He definitely won’t have any problem with making a playlist with you, and even doing one with songs that reminds him of you.

Pet names: He calls you mon amour or ma chérie when he is feeling more romantic -and usually during intimacy- if not, he calls you anything ridiculous that’s related to your name or hun.

✰; remember to reblog and like to support my content, I hope you enjoyed it!

#: ̗̀➛ alex's ml hcs!#moonlight lovers #moonlight lovers headcanons #ml headcanons #ml scenarios #moonlight lovers sfw #beliath #aaron #raphael #vladimir #ethan #ivan #beemoov

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bots-and-cons · 1 year ago

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Since requests say open

Can I get knockout and Shockwave with werewolf reader (not the transforms only on a full moon kind but the basically always able to transform, also not very scary just fluffy creature)

A/N: I basically went with the twilight type of werewolf (or at least what I remember of them), because that’s the only “fluffy, not very scary” one I can think of, also they’re biiiiiig. The reader is their partner/s/o so they’ve got a romantic relationship

~Shockwave~

•Shockwave is probably more interested in the whole werewolf thing on a biological/scientific level

•If you let him, he’d like to scan you, take blood samples, and other stuff like that

•He’s just interested in how the whole transformation thing works for you, because the mechanics of it seem way different than for his kind

•You sometimes sleep in the lab, just on some counter, in your wolf form

•Shockwave is aware that humans pet dogs, and the dogs enjoy it, so he’s wondering if the same would apply to you

•So one time you’re asleep, he starts giving you some scratches behind your ear

•You seem to quite enjoy it, and he’s absolutely enamored with how happy you seem to be when he pets you

•He doesn’t really do it often, because he doesn’t think it’s necessary or a thing you would need, but he does still think it’s nice

•Shockwave thinks it’s odd that you don’t seem to match much of the lore he ends up reading about, because you’re very much a real thing

•You explain to him that most people don’t actually think werewolves are real and that most of the stuff online is just flat-out fanfiction

•Shockwave learns that he shouldn’t believe everything that’s on the internet

•Because he asks some very weird and uncomfortable questions based on his online research

•You’re just like “No, no no no, no no, no nope”

•Shockwave doesn’t really see you as a normal human, though you’re the only human he knows so he doesn’t really have a benchmark for a “normal human”

•He thinks of you as a werewolf, which you’re not offended by, because that’s what you are

~Knockout~

•The first time you transformed into a wolf in front of him, he was pretty freaked out

•In his (very loud) words “How the scrap did you turn into a dog?!”

•You walk up to him and bark at him playfully, and he thinks you’re the cutest thing ever

•Then he just basically starts baby-talking to you, because “puppy!”

•You of course can’t answer, because wolves can’t talk, even in the case of werewolves

•It’s honestly a bit weird, because if you showed a human this side of you, they would run away screaming, but Knockout’s reaction is “puppy” because you’re basically the size of a normal dog for him

•There’s a sort of “magic aspect” to this that your clothes become a part of you during the transformation, so you’re clothed when you turn back

•He of course has a ton of questions, main ones being “What?” and “How?”

•You’ve been werewolf since birth, but the traits only started presenting themselves when you were about 15

•You mostly find the “puppy” comment to be funny, but it ends up becoming a pet name that Knockout uses for you all the time

•It grows on you, but you weren’t that fond of the name at first

•You have to transform every once in a while, or you start getting this itchy kind of feeling and it starts driving your crazy

•You also just like running in the woods and feeling free so Knockout bridges you to places around the world where you can run

•Sometimes you like sleeping on Knockout’s chest or lap, and he likes to pet you, which you enjoy as well

#transformers #tfp #transformers prime #decepticons #knockout #shockwave #tfp headcanons #transformers fluff #reader insert #tfp x reader #transformers x reader

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piebingo · 1 year ago

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Some of my favourite current YR wips

Because wips deserve lots of love🫶 please add any additions you have!!

I see you in my future | 15/? | by littlefandom

Love, apparently, comes at the most unexpected moments and in the most random places. Wille agrees with that. He did not expect to meet the love of his life online, but the moment his eyes landed on Simon through the screen, it was like he knew that it was going to be something special, something extraordinary...

What he did not know then, was the distance between them, the differences, the troubles they were going to face in order to be together in the way they wanted to.

But another thing that he does know, is that Simon is worth it and that they are in this together, both of them willing to put themselves through all of the obstacles if it means they get their happy ending.

The question is: will they get it?

Their relationship is super sweet here and I love the way they handle conflict. It’s so well done.

To be where you are | 5/? | by RBlytheo8

“It will get easier, Wille, once you find your Guide. They’ll be able to help you and support you like mamma and I can’t.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? I don’t have a perfect match. I won’t have a Guide.”

(Or, a Sentinel and Guide story for Simon and Wille.)

Super interesting concept and lovely to see their dynamic.

Bittersweet ecstasy (I pick my poison and it’s you) | 2/3 | by wthbaby

Pure blooded wolves were said to descend from the moon goddess herself, being able to shift to their wolf forms, their genes stronger than the ones of the common wolf. They were the prime species. If a wolf were to be born pure blooded, no matter alpha, beta or omega, they were automatically in line of succession.

Wilhelm presented as an Alpha, in a long line of pure-bloods, at eighteen moons of age. He had a role to fulfill as the future Head Alpha of the northern pack.

And Simon, a male omega, a nobody, had fallen head over heels for the young alpha.

The only problem? Wilhem was set to be mated to another omega.

This feels like a fantasy setting which I love! It’s a lot about them as actual wolves , which is different (for me). The dynamic is again super interesting.

Where we left off | 4/10 | by gulliblelemon/ @gulliblelemon

Simon meets Wilhelm by accident in the wake of Erik's sudden death. This story follows their lives through the years, and through more of their accidental and on-purpose meetings, as their lives change and they cross paths again and again.

The last update broke me and I’m greatful for it🫶

Royally whipped | 15/16 | by bigalockwood / @bigalockwood

Erik's death leaves Wille unable to pick up his duties as Crown Prince right away. Instead he's granted two years away from the spotlight at Hillerska. Now that he's finished his education, the court expects him to make a public reappearance.

What better opportunity for a reintroduction than Sweden's favorite baking show? It's low risk, low stakes, no distractions.

Well. If it wasn't for Simon Eriksson, musician and Wille's long-time celebrity crush, everything could've been so easy.

This is a blast to read. It’s so sweet and I love to tune in every week to ready my chapter. I’ll be so sad when it’s done!

Constellations of love | 8/9 | by spidaya / @simons-purplehoodie

TLDR: An enemies to lovers & fake dating story, with focuses on Simon’s struggle to keep his family afloat despite his father’s abuse and addiction, and Wille’s trauma and anxiety from childhood to adulthood, heavily based on the book “They Hate Each Other” by Amanda Woody

They are silly and they are sweet and they are in love and I love them too. Again one I’ve realized is almost completed which feels bittersweet already!

I’m know I have more but those are the ones I could remember up the top of my head!

#young royals #wilmon #yr fanfic #yr fanfic recommendations #yr fanfic rec list #scheduled post

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silent-moons-camp · 3 months ago

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OC Facts: Stígandr's lycanthropy

Been a while since I've posted about my Tav. Let's give him some love through me yapping about his lycanthropy.

Facts beneath the break.

Stígandr (and my Durge, Lysandra) both became infected with werewolf lycanthropy when they were inducted into a cult of Malar deep within the Wood of Sharp Teeth, just outside Baldur's Gate.

Both were turned by the cult's leader, a drow named Khastri. Said drow was a loup garou, a type of far more dangerous werewolf whose goal was to infect as many as possible. This makes Stígandr's lycanthropy particularly difficult to cure; the only way to remove it is to kill the one who infected him, and even then, there's no guarantee it will work.

Piggybacking off that previous point, Lysandra does end up being cured by Khastri's death but Stígandr does not.

Stígandr is later blessed by Selûne for his part in saving of both Dame Aylin and Shadowheart. This blessing allows him greater control over his lycanthropy and overall makes it a bit easier to deal with.

Stígandr tries for quite some time to hide his lycanthropy from Shadowheart. When Shadowheart tells him about her fear of wolves, he promises to protect her from any wolves they encounter and this endears her to him. Thing is... he really meant all wolves. There comes a point after the tiefling party where his curse is involuntarily revealed to her.

Said event (that has been sitting as an unfinished oneshot in my Obsidian MD for months) involves him and Lysandra dealing with the full moon together. Lysandra loses herself in the process (thanks, Bhaalspawn blood!) and Stígandr chases after her, both in wolf form, right into the middle of camp.

If you've ever watched Van Helsing, I like to imagine Stígandr looking like the werewolf from that movie. Black fur to match his hair.

He does have fangs.

Stígandr can eat raw meat just fine. It's definitely a weird moment when the rest of the camp finds him munching on some raw deer meat or something. He has an insatiable craving for it sometimes.

He does have a regular wolf form. In the post-game, him and Arnell will hunt together as regular wolves.

Stígandr naturally has the "speak with animals" ability. I've never multiclassed him into a ranger or druid because paladin/ranger or paladin/druid seems like a bad idea, but I like to think he can summon animal friends too. He has a bird that I've yet to give a name to that helps him scout ahead.

He has miraculously never broken his Paladin oath due to his lycanthropy. This is likely because, while an awful group, his place in the Malarite cult gave him the room to prepare before a turning without harming innocents. Probably the only good thing the Malarite cult did for Stígandr.

He has a lot of dog-like quirks. Scratching behind his ears or under his chin makes him very happy. He can be very playful sometimes. Stígandr has probably played fetch with Scratch and had to hold back the urge to chase the ball himself. Shadowheart lovingly teases him about these things.

I think that's it for now. Thank you for reading. <3

#oc: stigandr tavrinth #stfu cloud #baldurs gate #bg3 #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3

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farrahelaminrp · 24 days ago

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(Geraldine Viswanathan / Female but questioning nonbinary / 21 / she/her) — FARRAH EL-AMIN has been living in Port Leiry for A FEW DAYS. They currently work as a FULL TIME STUDENT, and are 21 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH or if they’re connected to PHIAL They tend to be quite NAIVE and IMPULSIVE, but can also be COMPASSIONATE and HONEST.— ( doodle / est / they/them / 29 / eye gore, miscarriages)

Name: Farrah El-Amin

Occupation: Full-Time student (botany major)

Age: 21

Sexuality: Sapphic

Species: Witch

Clan/Pack/Coven: Phial

Hometown: Dubai

Relationship Status: Single (useless lesbian)

Personality Traits: Impulsive, naive, compassionate, honest, earnest.

What characters or tropes inspired this OC, if any?:

I was heavily inspired by the trope of a sunshine character being completely broken down and then reshaped anew. A mix of hurt/comfort and found family with lots of devastation in the middle.

What song would you say is your character’s theme song?:

Mowgli’s Road by MARINA

How would you describe your character’s aesthetic?

Once they arrive, their style would be pretty eclectic and random for a while as they’re adjusting to a whole new country and culture, but eventually they would settle into whimsigoth. Bio: CW: Neglect, Death, Blood

Second daughters are not supposed to matter. Not in a family like theirs. She was born small, quiet, and late—like she missed her cue. Jaya had already bloomed like a bruiseless apple: sharp, lovely, full of promise. Their mother barely glanced at her in the crib. Their father joked about saving her for a “profitable match,” and no one ever laughed.

Dubai is made of glass and secrets. She doesn’t remember Dhaka, only the way Jaya used to whisper about it when he thought no one was listening. He carried it with him like a pressed flower. She carried nothing. Just her name and the future someone else had written for her in ink she wasn’t allowed to touch.

She never set foot in their father’s workroom. Not once. The door stayed locked, and she stayed good. Good girls had no need to know how mandrake screamed, or what sound a selkie’s skin made when it was stripped and salted. She learned how to charm a room, not carve a rune.

Magic found her late. Too late for their mother’s liking. Her potions fizzled like wet matches for years, and every time her father sighed, she shrank a little smaller. But outside—out in the wild—things were different. Moss liked her. Vines curled toward her fingers. She met others there, where names were less important than scent and silence.

Her friends howled when she laughed and never asked what family she came from. She didn’t know they were wolves—not really. Not until Jaya said it, casually, like a joke. Like a knife slipped between ribs. She remembers the way her parents went still. Remembers the howling that never came again. She forgave him, of course. But she never really laughed after that.

There were rules now. She didn’t bring anyone home, not even classmates. Her mother started asking questions about full moons. Her father watched the shadows more closely. The house got quieter. Lonelier. Jaya disappeared into the greenhouse, into his books, into himself.

He looked pale. Tired. She saw it first, but no one ever listened to her. Not until she told them. She didn’t even say it cruelly. Just a sentence, dropped like a pebble into a well. “I think Jaya’s seeing someone... I think he’s a vampire.” She thought they’d lock the windows. Maybe force an arranged engagement with that awful girl from Cairo.

They didn't ground him. They buried the man. What was left of Jaya came home in a silence so sharp it left paper cuts on her skin. Her brother was gone.

They started dressing her in leadership. Telling her about alliances. About what kind of husband she might tolerate. About what sacrifices were necessary to protect their name. She nodded through it all. She packed that night.

She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have magic worth envying. But she had shame. And she had a brother who needed to hear the words: I’m sorry. And this time, she would mean them enough to bleed if she had to.

Wanted Plots:

I’m REALLY looking for her to get turned as a werewolf not too long after she arrives. We can work out if its willingly or not.

Low key I kinda want a few people to just….ruin her life. Take advantage of how impulsive and naive she can be. Make her suffer.

I also would like for her to eventually stumble into a found family dynamic. And to find genuine love. Eventually helping her heal from all the other shit. But I want her to work for it lmao.

#cor.intro

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wordsandrobots · 1 year ago

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Huh. Actually -- since I'm stuff home sick and my brain refuses to shut up and let me sleep -- apropos of reblogging @superhelltubedotsys' post citing Barbatos Lupus Rex's status as a werewolf Gundam, I'm now thinking about the significance that has within Iron-Blooded Orphans (some spoilers follow).

Because Barbatos the demon has no association with wolves in the Ars Goetia. The nearest applicable part is "He giveth understanding of the singing of Birds, and of the Voices of other creatures, such as the barking of Dogs", which is fitting for Mikazuki and plays into the comparison between mobile armour Hashmal and a bird, but pointedly does not imply 'appears as a giant fuck-off wolf monster with a knife-tail'. That description would seem more appropriately applied to Amon, the immediately prior demon, number seven: "He appeareth like a Wolf with a Serpent’s tail, vomiting out of his mouth flames of fire . . ."

But of course, Gundam Barbatos' steady revision towards the Lupus Rex form is a drift away from its initial design. Exactly how much influence the Ars Goetia descriptions had on the Gundam project and how much they were just used as a naming convention is a little up in the air. Some do seem to be applicable (Zagan being a 'bull with gryphon wings', Flauros switching between the forms of a leopard and a man, etc.). Others . . . well, Bael is supposed to appear as either a toad, a cat, or a man, or all three at once, and while that has some applicability to McGillis' whole deal, it's not really a match for Gundam Bael's angelic form. Nor do the Gundam's abilities evoke demon!Bael's power to render someone invisible. However, I think we can safely conclude that, in-universe at least, the goetic demons are only pertinent to the Gundams' initial appearances and capabilities.

Barbatos' revisions throughout Season 1 are instead a gradual cannibalisation of various different sources of technology and weapons to get it back into fighting shape (Teiwaz technically restores it to its original appearance, but that doesn't last past the Dort arc; thereafter, we're back to bolting on any spare armour going). Barbatos Lupus then represents a significant step towards redefining it in line with the Chief's goal of creating an 'ultimate' version based on Mika's battle data, with Barbatos Lupus Rex being the end-point for that progression.

Put simply, Barbatos gradually becomes more and more tailored to Mikazuki, specifically. To digress for a moment, this forms a big part of my reasoning that Mika being able to use the katana properly at the climax of Season 1 represents the influence of Barbatos' original pilot; after this, he ditches that kind of weapon entirely. Even while fighting Hashmal, he reaches for the biggest club available (technically, a broad-sword, but so ridiculously huge nobody could call it a precision weapon). It's another interesting detail that Mika can't beat Ein in their final face-off by fighting like himself, which comes back around again as the back half of Season 2 kicks into gear.

Anyway, my point is this: being a werewolf is not inherently part of Barbatos' deal. Rather it represents Mikazuki's growing influence -- as you might thematically expect for a union with a character named after the moon (crescent moon, specifically, though I can't imagine the association wasn't intended given Tekkadan are wolf-coded in the text). And that's fascinating because as I've written about before, Barbatos and Mikazuki are the most blatant example of a devil's bargain in the show. The kid literally sells and arm and a leg (and an eye) for the power Barbatos can give him. And yet, the bestial aspects Barbatos takes on are rooted in Mika.

There's an echo of Gundam Wing's 'Gundams are a curse' refrain in IBO. These machines bring bad luck to everyone who pilots them, as a function of representing humanity subsumed by war. The inherent gamble of the Alaya-Vijnana, the overwhelming nature of the conflict they were built to end, the fact Gundams are never sufficient on their own to change the world -- it forms an unspoken counter-argument to McGillis' zealous faith in their status as symbols of transformation that is actually very in keeping with the demonological tradition from which they take their names. What they offer is costly and potentially damning, while also largely illusory when it comes to anything other than utter destruction. Indeed, Mikazuki is a living testament to how 'cursed' their pilots are.

It just happens that he was able to curse Barbatos back.

Because that's what Barbatos Lupus Rex is, isn't it? Put side by side with its original form, this is a clear degradation of a proud warrior into a savage beast. The same design elements persist, of course, yet by the end, it's near impossible to picture Barbatos as an elegant fighter making precision strikes with a honed sword. It has become a true berserker, tearing into its opponents with teeth and claws (well, claws and knife tail). As Tekkadan in general tend to, Mikazuki strips away the affectations of nobility and 'honourable' warfare in favour of brutal reality.

The detail of the Lupus Rex form merging parts of a mobile armour into a Gundam only heightens this. Weapons are weapons, whoever they serve and whatever guise they wear. Mikazuki is always honest about that. His awed response to Hashmal is of a piece with how easily he fits within Barbatos. He sees himself as equivalent to them -- has, in fact, constructed his entire identity around being so.

Thus, the lycanthropy he inflicts on Barbatos is of a kind that merely reveals the truth lurking under the skin. It was always an instrument of devastation. Now it looks the part.

#gundam iron blooded orphans #gundam ibo #tekketsu no orphans #g tekketsu #gundam #gundam barbatos #barbatos #more rambling #at some point I will get around to finishing that essay about the meaning of Gundams in this show #and putting that in context of the rest of the franchise

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legrandepapillon · 4 months ago

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Wyll and Astarion having a friendly sparring match post-game to relive the glory days. Whether it ends soft or steamy is up to you!

Rating: E

i am SO sorry for the amount of time it took me to fill this, life & writer's block were jumping me. however i DID have a lot of fun writing this so thank you for the prompt!

should’ve known i’d pick steamy ofc. also something about the idea of Flaming Fist Blaze Wyll makes me twirl my hair & kick my legs

HC that Wyll is the type of commander to say “Please, Mr. Ravengard was my father, call me Wyll” to the starry-eyed recruits & fan their crush on him while Astaron rolls his eyes

elements of dom/sub (service top/pleasure dom wyll, bratty sub/power bottom astarion), rough sex, & a little blood play to be found here. also this is my first time writing explicit wyllstarion smut start to finish.

There were many sounds to be heard throughout the Flaming Fist stronghold throughout any given day, but the loudest tended to emanate from the training quarters smack in the center of the grounds. Wooden weapons against straw dummies, the bodies of fresh recruits hitting the hard leather during a bit of physical demonstration… and the groans of pain from said demonstrations that often left them battered and bruised. It was a consistent and profuse cacophony of ear-splitting noise in the Fist recruitment hall these days. Young women and men flocked to the ranks of the command, for once eager to ladder climb in the name of glory as opposed to gold; most of them starry-eyed and hopeful at the idea of laying on eyes on the Blaze Wyll Ravengard—Hero of Baldur’s Gate, former Blade of Frontiers, and the future Duke of the city.

During the day, under the scorching sun in the midst of training the city’s future militia, it could become loud enough to deafen. But at night with the moon high in the sky and only torch-light illuminating the abandoned grounds, the only sound was that of two men lost in their own world. A pair of old adventurers, skills still sharp from their well-formed routine of friendly sparring.

In a dirt ring outdoors where most recruits met a rather painful tumble to the hands of their more capable counterparts, Astarion and Wyll circle each other listlessly. One armed with a pair of glinting twin daggers, the other with the steel of his rapier pointed towards the dirt. Though their weapons are real and their blades sharp, neither have the intent to hurt each other.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, Blade? I don’t exactly know how to play nice—haven’t you figured that out yet?” mocks Astarion, the barest hint of amusement in his voice while he dons a rather fake growl of threat. Wyll rolls his eyes in response, playing at being offended by the implication.

“I’m not worried about you playing nice, Astarion,” he shrugs. “Fight fair or fight dirty, either way I’ll win.”

The idea that he’d ever fight fair is almost as laughable as the idea that he’d fight bloodlessly had been in the beginning. Perhaps that would change with time, too.

Oh, and all the time it had taken. To learn the self-control necessary not to provide a killing blow. But he was rather amused with how well it honed his reflexes; fixing himself to respond defensively without hurting his counterpart surprisingly made for sharper instincts. He recalls a time long ago, back at a druidic grove filled with refugees from Elturel on the cusp of being thrown to the wolves. In the brief moments of levity where he witnessed the tiefling elders attempting to teach their little ones to play. The children were always too high-strung to remember that they had claws and horns and that they couldn’t simply wrestle without also keeping a bit of mindfulness. At the time, he’d merely looked on with vague disinterest while his group meandered through the grove trying to parse through the budding tensions. But he’d been oddly reminiscent of the children at the beginning of this; eager to pounce and have a romp around in the grass, but fearful of hurting someone. Of hurting Wyll.

Back then, Astarion had been accustomed only to fighting for survival. The concept of it being for fun—to pass time and clear his thoughts—was foreign to him.

Now? He has the presence of mind and prowess of some of those elders. He both knows the luxuries of friendly sparring without his life being at risk, and the thrills of toeing the line anyways.

Because that's what this is about in the end, isn’t it? The thrill? The excitement?

The domesticity of life in the Gate—life as the fiancé to Blaze Wyll Ravengard—though comfortable, was often mundane. This brought excitement. Their game, with more layers than he could ever voice, kept the spark alive.

“You’re overthinking again,” announces Wyll, making a sudden movement to the left to snap him back to the present. Astarion’s hand jerks out to cover his right side intuitively, ensuring he doesn’t provide the opening to his partner while he scans for one of his own.

“And you’re talking to me like one of your recruits, again,” he retorts. He finds his opening quicker than expected, lunging for a jab towards the younger man’s left flank. The flat of his blade meets empty air by only a half-second, Wyll dancing elegantly out of the way. He recovers quickly before he can sacrifice his advantage, pressing the offense with another swipe towards his chest with the other hand. The tip of the dagger barely scratches the edge of Wyll’s shoulder as he moves backwards, dodging before finding his own opening towards Astarion’s stomach. The flat of his rapier smacks his partner against his navel, only slightly catching the thick fabric of his tunic.

“Oh, c’mon, Astarion. You can be quicker than that,” taunts the former warlock with an airy laugh. And though the flickers of hubris might be unattractive to anyone else, his sparring partner can’t help but find it painfully arousing. He grins at him sharply before doing just that, light-feet taking him out of range from his rapier two beats before the next slash.

Both of them are still dexterous and well-trained. Years of fighting for survival on both ends has made their timing top notch, months of sparring for fun have made their reflexes impeccable. Each jab of the rapier is met with a carefully timed parry from a dagger, each riposte from a blade recovered smoothly by dancers’ feet. It’s like this more often than not; a test of endurance over brutality. Wyll is graceful like a dancer, Astarion more comparable to a feline, but they both have the finesse required to take the viciousness out of it.

Like a well-choreographed waltz, they feint and parry and slash with rhythm. From adagio to allegro, the tempo of their moves goes from tenuous and careful to eager and energetic. Stamina will provide the winner of their game, not mightiness.

And… alright. There are other things to be gained from this. Whenever there’s a vampire spawn involved, there could hardly be any expectation there wouldn’t be some sort of ulterior motive. If he gets to see Wyll in action similar to the heady excitement of their glory days, if he gets enough noble eye candy to accompany some of his more lascivious fantasies then… well, as they say, birds and stones.

Astarion always especially admires, in these moments stolen away from polite society, the glimmers of Wyll’s arrogance. Of course, the Blade turned Blaze tried so desperately to remain humble in light of becoming a Hero and being given his own command. I have to set an example, he insisted, weighed down by his own righteousness. We need protectors for this city that desire honor, not glory.

But bad an influence as he was, Astarion can’t help but admire the confidence in each move when he fights. His strikes are unsparing, his parries precise and he knows it. No lack of magic could make him a less admirable fighter, his sword arm had not gotten lazy and his feet had not turned to stones. Wyll was just as graceful now without infernal power pumping through his veins as he was the day they met, jumping down from that rock and spitting charming one-liners—most importantly, he didn’t need to say it for the other man to know.

It didn’t help any how attractive he could be like this, either. The sweat sticking his cotton tunic to his broad chest, toned muscles flexing with effort, crimson eye glistening with his excitement and lips tugged into a cocky smile. The way the moonlight illuminated deep russet toned flesh, making him have an almost ocean blue hue in some places. And his laughter, deep and warm like the fleeting rays of sun… Astarion could fall all over again, time and time again, just from this.

He’s so lost in his admiration he miscalculates a dodge, loses his footing and gives Wyll the ability to press his offense. The danger in his right hand is knocked abruptly into the dirt, leaving him with the one blade to fight with. His left hand is the weaker one, better for attacking rather than defending, and he knows well the consequences of being caught in such a state.

Best to switch tactics, and hope the element of surprise regains the upper hand. Beautiful man or else wise, Astarion has always been a sore loser.

Tossing his blade he goes in for a tackle, and both men go tumbling to the dirt. He bargains correctly on taking Wyll by surprise; his rapier slips from his fingers as he goes down, a last-ditch effort not to accidentally stab either of them. There’s a grunt from the air being knocked out of him, but he recovers quickly. He hooks an arm beneath Astarion’s to try to maneuver himself on top, which only entices the reaction of Astarion wrapping his legs around his waist to try to throw himself back to advantage.

“Why can’t you ever fight honorably?” complains Wyll as they struggle, during one brief moment where he finds himself pinned face-down in the dirt. He bucks like a wild horse to get his opponent off of him, sending the both of them scrambling.

“Well, I thought you’d given me permission for a little rough play,” Astarion snipes back, before lunging back into the fray. There’s at least laughter at that, despite the struggle between them for advantage.

They grapple in this way for a while, faces inching closer to each other’s and hands groping desperately for leverage. It isn’t until Astarion finds himself on his back, wrists pinned to the dirt and knee in his hip that he finally gives up. It didn’t always end this way; sometimes he won, leaving Wyll with a bruised lip or ego or both. But the despair of defeat was always followed by the thrill of proximity whenever it did—their blood rushing with adrenaline, their faces inches apart, their breathing labored, and their bodies pressed so close it’s a wonder there’s any space to be found between them at all.

“Pinfall. Call it,” Wyll grins, his grip loose but firm on Astarion’s pale wrists. The man jerks his head against the dirt, looking away from that crimson eye swimming in obsidian—trying to maintain an inch of his dignity. Wyll’s other knee presses against his thigh. “Oh, don’t be a dirty fighter and a sore loser. Call it, Astarion.”

He looks back up at him. Tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. He doesn’t acquiesce; he almost never does when he loses. He does surge up to capture Wyll’s lips, kissing him hot and filthy in distraction. The man’s grip goes completely lax almost immediately, hands leaving his wrists so one can plant itself against Astarion’s cheek sweetly. The vampire isn’t looking for sweetness though. He’s miffed by his loss and entranced by his lover, needing something equally as thrilling as their combat to put him thoroughly in his place.

Wyll was the only one that could do that, after all. Put him in his place, make him heel. He’d do it biting and kicking and screaming but for Wyll he’d do it, at least.

Fangs nick at full lips in the kiss, the drops of blood blowing his pupils full with an insatiable hunger of all varieties. His partner isn’t at all perturbed by it either, pressing in with his hips with eager excitement at the sensation. It’s just this for a few breathless minutes, Wyll’s hand against his face and Astarion’s tongue lapping at the teasing drops of blood that leak from his lips. Mouths moving together passionately, seeking something out of this that neither of them could put words to.

It could be this for the rest of the night, if either of them wanted. Their game didn’t always have to end a certain way. Wyll would kiss him, or he would kiss Wyll, and that could be that. But Astarion wants more than this. He wants to be wrangled into his place, the unrepentant vampire spawn and his dogmatic monster hunter.

When Wyll pulls away from the kiss, he mouths at Astarion’s neck and eases his knee from the older man’s hip to hook under his thigh. He arches into the kisses in response, tilting his head so that he could feel the warmth of Wyll’s lips against more of skin, welcoming the man to have more of him. In the light of day Blaze Ravengard would never be caught so unhinged, but here in the moonlit training grounds he could be ravenous and devour his lover with no hesitation.

Cool, ever-chilled hands roam up the spine of the younger man and push him in closer—seeking all that too-hot body warmth Wyll had since he’d been turned infernal. His hips rock upwards and the other warm hand pins them to the ground firmly.

“Ah, ah,” breathes Wyll against his neck, plumes of warm air coming hot against his collarbone. “Be patient.”

“Screw patience.”

“You could always,” his teeth drag playfully over Astarion’s neck, almost directly opposite to the scars on the other side. The full body shudder that rakes through the other man makes him chuckle. “call the pinfall.”

The idea is tantalizing. It was cause and effect, this thing between them. Push and pull, give and take. A behavioral lesson, Wyll had once joked, panting hard and covered in a thin sheen of post-coital sweat. Astarion fought so hard against showing any signs of weakness or vulnerability, all down to the very act of submitting when he was beaten. He’d fought every day for two hundred years, been broken in every way imaginable but his spirit. And there’d been many times where he’d been able to acquiesce to the feeling of being broken under the thumb of Cazador, to admit that there was nothing anyone could ever do to escape him. That he was his spawn, likely for the rest of his miserable unlife, and that would be that. But he still snarked and schemed and stole—stole moments of freedom, moments of peace, moments of contrition and resistance.

He played the part of a mewling, sniveling subservient pet but never truly felt it. He never bowed, not really. Not without the sharp dig of his own claws in his fist.

Wyll doesn’t expect a year to change that about him, and that’s the beautiful part of it. But Astarion could, sometimes, truly give up his own control. Every so often he could go lax, and lower his eyelids, and admit that Wyll has him. In every way that matters and some of the ways that don’t, too. He could be vulnerable and weak. Every so often, for this man, he’d even want to.

He could call the pinfall, and Wyll could praise him for being such a good boy, and kiss him sweetly. Settle himself between his thighs and truly worship him.

Tonight is not that night, however. They have the rest of Wyll’s life for Astarion to show complacency, but right now he wants to be shown why Wyll deserves it. He pulls back his lips to reveal his sharp canines, pins the other man with a challenging stare and grins like a feral animal. Wyll’s good eye blows wide and Astarion watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. The act of defiance is not met violently, except for the way he takes his mouth against his and conquers.

Wyll’s hand, firm and devout, moves from the grip on his hip to tug the loose fabric of his tunic up. Warm heat spreads through Astarion’s belly at the feel of his palm right there on his chilled flesh. And Astarion arches even at that, pathetic as it may be. The muscles in his abdomen seize, anticipatory with how close his lover could be where he wants him. A thumb hovers over his navel, and he wishes that the man would travel straight south and put those magnificent fingers to better use. But Wyll just kisses; desperately, eagerly, domineering and yet ever kind.

When his mouth pulls away Astarion hisses, but is quickly placated with a kiss to his jawline. Warm soft lips place kisses ever where they can; his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the space where his ears meet his jaw, the slope of his ears and the tips of them too. He’s practically reverent, the heady passion with which he kisses outweighed by the floating sensation each brings with it.

“I love you like this, you know?” Wyll says into his ear, simple and warm. “I love it when you’re difficult.”

“You’re a fool,” Astarion pants in response, because doesn’t that just sound so inane and ridiculous and erotic. His hips jerk forward against the other man again, the tent in his pants catching at Wyll’s thigh. They both groan at the contact.

“Your fool,” responds Wyll easily, kissing down to his neck. “Your sweet fool, my darling star, and only yours.”

Astarion silences him by slipping a hand in his trousers, palming at his cock through his small clothes. An overt act of defiance, pushing back against every instinct that shouts at him to submit. Wyll’s sucks air in through his teeth sharply and comes to terms that there are battles that he won’t be given but must fight. A good lesson for a man fresh out of magic and learning survival by his own might.

And then there’s a palm on his throat, pressing his head back into the dirt. Carefully manicured claws dig just in the spot beneath his jawline, not deep enough to hurt but to enforce the idea of who won. Who is stronger, faster, better… who’s in control.

“You can be sweeter than that; gentler,” he whispers, and it carries the weight it needs to. Astarion shivers at the command, and the reminder cows him into submission far earlier than he’d like. He eases his groping, switches to a more polite massage and arcs with a whine beneath his monster hunter. It is frankly terrifying, how easy it is for this man to veer him back towards obedience. “Good boy.”

Another hiss, this time as the vampire scrambles to find his footing again. He arches his hips upwards, bucks like the pinned, cornered, feral animal he’s supposed to be rather than the domesticated one he’s becoming. Refuses to give his lover the satisfaction so easily, and without uttering a syllable manages to demand exactly what he wants. Wyll huffs a bit of laughter, muttering something about him being endearingly insolent. And then their lips are on each other again, the younger man’s hot pink tongue slipping into Astarion's mouth. He moans into the wet kiss, his hand going lax on Wyll’s dick and his other clawing at the man’s back desperately. Pressing him closer, trying to eliminate the little space between their bodies.

Just as sweetly and passionately as he kisses, Wyll touches. His hand is warm and gentle as it roams over Astarion’s abdomen, bunching the fabric of his tunic on his wrist and sliding upwards until he can shirk his arms out of it. They have to pull away to discard the offending clothing, tossing it haphazardly a few feet away in the dirt. In the moment, neither vampire nor his partner can pay credence to the fine Amnian silks it’s made of or how many hours he’d sunk into designing it. It might as well be a soiled handkerchief, the way it crumples on the dirt training grounds.

Broad hands travel planes of milky white skin, gleaming beneath the moonlight. Index and thumb gently massage a pert pink nipple, causing Astarion to moan again into the kiss. The hand that’s been resting on his throat squeezes lightly, not hard enough to be punishing like earlier but just a gentle reminder of its presence. A reverent thumb swipes along his jawline, the rest of those calloused digits pulling him deeper into the kiss.

And still Astarion’s hand strokes, touches, feels. Without permission, but that seems to be a battle that Wyll is okay with losing tonight. His hips rock forward into the rhythm of it, letting long lithe experienced digits grope him through the fabric of his small clothes. They remain this way for long minutes, until Astarion gives a needy whine and starts to maneuver around the cotton of Wyll’s underwear.

Wyll comes back to the game then, removing his hand from his throat to grab his wrist and pin it to the ground. He settles up on his haunches between Astarion’s legs, gives him a look of warning.

His voice is velvet smooth when he speaks, a sharp contrast to the vague threat he wraps around the words. “Do you want to get off tonight?”

“What in the hells kind of stupid question is that—”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Of course—”

“Then stay,” he commands, before reaching for the hem of Astarion’s trousers. There’s a sternness to his voice that actually snaps the vampire out of his insubordinate attitude, makes him give a short nod of his head. Wyll is careful about undressing Astarion; gentle hands pull apart the laces on his breeches, and they’re bordering on veneration when they pull them with his small clothes down to his knees. It’s less than ideal, being bare-ass in the dirt where just anyone could stumble across the two of them.

But there’s a thrill in it, too. Of being so thoroughly subdued by his man—his sweet, foolish, darling man—that he would lay himself bare in every way imaginable. To give Wyll the power to humiliate him willingly is one of their many exercises in trust; to spar with him without it ending in bloodshed, to love him without hurting him, to take the brunt of his moods without ever returning an unkind gesture. To hold the very power of his destruction in the center of his palm, and still handle it like the finest china.

Astarion bites back the whimper of desire that threatens through the guard of his canines at the very thought. Still, Wyll notes his desperation anyway and is gracious enough to hurry through the motions. Though quick, his movements are far from being harsh or unsparing. He lowers himself slowly down the pale elf’s body with sweet kisses, lips brushing at pert pink nipples and sucking at the ticklish spot on his ribcage. When he’s nestled between Astarion’s thighs, face to face with his weeping wet cock, he even presses a loving kiss to his hipbone. The older man shudders at the action, body fully trembling with the desperation to be touched and the difficulty of obedience. The cruel, evil, sadistic monster in him wants to grab a fistful of Wyll’s hair and shove those soft lips over his tip. The submissive, lovable, tamed man that he’s become only flexes the muscles in his thighs and bats his eyelashes pleadingly.

“Wyll…” he sighs, hips bucking but still maintaining the teasing distance his lover has put between himself and where he wants him.

“I’m going,” Wyll assures, gentleness laced through his tone to ensure Astarion understands that he’s not peeved at the insistence but rather endeared. It makes the very tips of his ears flush. “Voco arvina.”

One callused hand becomes slick with grease, glistening under the sparing moonlight whilst the other angles his lover’s hips upwards. Wyll takes a mouthful of Astarion’s cock like a seasoned veteran, like he’s the one that’s been on his knees for two centuries. And like the blushing virgin, the vampire keens. A moan loud enough to wake the entire barracks leaves his lips, back arching off of the gritty dirt training ground and into the wet heat of his fiancé’s mouth. The hand on his hips tightens in warning and Astarion practically melts into the command. He relaxes his muscles, wills himself to be still. To be good for this man. Oh, the rewards for being good so outweighed the satisfaction of being cruel these days.

He can feel himself losing his will to be combatant by the second. Impudence trickling out of his mind and replaced slowly with the overwhelming desire to give everything over to this beautiful, magnificent man.

Fingers by now well-practiced slide with the grease between the cleft of his ass, parting the cheeks to reach their destination with the dexterity of a man that knows what he’s doing. Wyll had bumbled with this in the very beginning. It was a shame, the only person who he’d ever given pleasure to in this way was himself and when Astarion had seen how he was doing it he almost wept for the poor man’s rear. It’d taken patience to get him to learn how to be gentle, how to touch and stroke and push and caress. But once he’d learned…—

“Gods damn it, Wyll!” Astarion hisses, unsure of whether to thrust up into his mouth or grind down onto the digits pressing into his entrance. His hips stutter and twitch but ultimately remain perfectly still in his lover’s grip. It’s a rather handy trick at teaching him this bit of discipline. The message comes through loud and clear. He’ll take only what Wyll Ravengard deigns to give him; he wouldn’t demand anything more, or anything less. And more importantly, he’d be grateful for it. Happy to be at the mercy of a man that knows better, happy to be mindless and pliant in the hands of a kind man for once. To be taken care of, to be cowed into vulnerability.

The thought sends whatever blood left in his system from dinner right to his cock, which twitches eagerly as Wyll sucks more of him down. Astarion kicks at the dirt beneath him, brings a single hand up to bite his fist. He knows better than to place a hand on the tidy canerows of the man’s freshly braided hair, or to reach for his wrist in a plea for more. It’d only serve to end their fun, disappoint him with how difficult he’s finding it to be good.

Astarion doesn’t want to disappoint Wyll. He wants to be good, he wants to be perfect, he wants to be his.

Because Wyll is not a cruel man. He’s not an unjust one, nor is he a demanding one. If there was any man on Earth he’d come to heel for, it had to be this one. He knows that he’s safe with him, that the trust he puts into his hands wouldn’t be misappropriated. And so he tries his best to be so good, because Wyll is good to him. He’d spent two centuries caving to men that only wanted to take, what kind of unsalvageable monster would he be to disobey the one that wanted to give?

Astarion makes a noise at the back of his throat, somewhere between a whine and a moan as Wyll lifts to lick at the tip of his dick. The pads of his fingers press deeper into him, massaging at his prostate reverently. And he does all this with his good eye fixated on Astarion’s expression, watching for any sign of discomfort or malcontent. It never comes.

Indeed, the vampire is open-mouth panting—his bottom lip pink and puffy from all the kissing. There’s no need for the steady repetitive breaths that come from him, there’s no need for breathing at all. But it feels right to pant like a dog. Wyll’s pretty, perfect pampered pet begging for more of his master's attention. It only becomes more deliberate with every lick or suck or tease from the man himself, the walls of his disobedience crumbling in every second. It doesn’t hurt to think of Wyll has his master, his owner, someone that has caught and tamed him. It doesn’t bother him for even a moment—not when Wyll playfully skims his sharpened canines along the shaft of his dick, not when he leans forward until his nose tickles at Astarion’s pubic bone. And certainly not when he swallows him down, and the vampire sees spots of long in the darkness where he’d squeezed his eyes closed. He falls into it all, nails digging into the dirt beneath him and hips rocking upward.

He’s seeking his pleasure greedily now, no sight for anything other than that tumble off the edge into his own indolent nirvana. The steadily growing knot of tension in the pit of his stomach is only counterweighed by the thick blanket of subservience lowering over his consciousness. Slowly, one by one, all of his thoughts begin to filter out of his mind. Almost orderly, a procession of every negative emotion single file out of his forefront of awareness into all there’s left is this. Him. Wyll. Sweet Wyll. Giving Wyll. Loving, tender, cherishing Wyll Ravengard. His love for him floating cloudy through every nerve in his flesh, eyes rolling back in his head as he nears the precipice of the abyss, ready to hurdle over completely.

Never let this end, he thinks desperately, as his fiancé’s tongue laps at another bead of precum. Let me stay here, Master, I want to be here for you, always…

That proverbial abyss was rapidly gaining faster than he’d anticipated. But just as he’s ready to let go, to throw himself over with the knowledge that Wyll would be his safety net, a strong clamps down hard at the base of his cock. Astarion cries out a sob and his hips stutter, chasing the sweet release that he’s suddenly denied.

“Master,” Astarion sobs, already hoarse and teetering shamefully on the brink of satisfaction. “Fuck, please, why?!”

There’s a brief pause from Wyll at the moniker, as there always is. He double checks to ensure that Astarion is still present with him. As always, he won’t say or do a thing else beyond what his lover needs. By now, he’s used to being called by the old moniker—though in the beginning, there’d been lengthy and painful tedious discussions about how he never wanted to be to Astarion what Cazador had been. How he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of being categorized by the same title that had subjugated his love.

When Astarion had ensured him that it was less of him becoming his new master, and more of him taking that title away to give it to someone far more deserving, his Blaze had been more on board.

And now, after all that, Wyll only needs brief check in before he’s diving back into the game.

“I’ll give you what you want, my love,” he hums, pressing kisses to pale thighs sheened with sweat. “Just call the pinfall.”

Astarion groans, tosses his head back against the dirt. Again, he is presented with the chance to cut the game short by submitting entirely. To give into Wyll’s sweet demand without protest, be awarded in turn. But it’s early in the night, and though his cock throbs with denial, he finds that he wants more still. There is another spar to be found here, in this and he finds that he isn’t ready to yield. Every thought of simple subservience flees him with the last dregs of his denied orgasm. If he cannot have his way, then Wyll won't have his, either.

He lifts his head. Licks at dry lips, quirks an eyebrow with more insouciance than he feels. He voice only shakes a little bit when he speaks, which he is unnecessarily proud of.

“Surely you have more to you than just your tongue and fingers? You’ll have to work harder than that, I’m afraid.”

“Cheeky little pet,” chuckles the younger man, pressing yet another kiss to his inner thigh. He stares up at him lovingly, fingers still working at the vampire's hole. The pleasure-driven strokes against his prostate ease entirely, fingers seeking to stretch rather than gratify. Astarion fights the grin that threatens his lips, knowing what comes next. His favorite part of the game.

He might be denied his release several times over, but at least he’ll be stuffed with cock while it happens.

As expected, Wyll clambers up onto his knees. He looms this way, presence hovering over the elven vampire in what should be an intimidating way. If it were anyone else, Astarion might feel just that. But this is his darling Wyll, his doting and indulgent master. He wouldn’t even dream of harming him—or not in any way that Astarion wouldn’t love—and the presence above him feels more like protection than a threat. There is only the enveloping warmth of safety, and electrically charged air of desire.

Astarion is obedient enough to keep his hands by his head, even when he desires nothing more but to reach out and touch. Wyll's armor had rucked up and left a small exposed trail of hair leading down his navel. His trousers had come undone, and they hang low on his hips. In the time between the fall of the Absolute and his position as Blaze, he'd put on more weight—though most of it was hard muscle, brought on by months of non-stop combat training with his command. Astarion wants to sink his teeth into the extra span of deep, umber flesh. He wants to lick and caress and kiss. He might be allowed to later; when they could make love in a real bed, no games just Wyll and Astarion.

But first he wants to be fucked stupid. And to do that, he has to wait. Wait while Wyll tugs his armor and undershirt off of his chest, while he frees his thick erection from his smalls and shoves them down to his thighs, while he one-handed casts another grease spell. Years of spellcasting while wielding his weapon have made him an expert multitasker, and his fingers keep a steady if not unhurried pace while he works. Astarion doesn’t even bother trying to make himself look pretty. He just lays there and reacts how he pleases to the sensation of being stretched open on slender, dexterous fingers. His subdued throaty gasps and sweaty, red-face don’t make him any less attractive to Wyll. In fact, he strokes the grease onto his dick with a hunger in his eye, practically salivating at the display beneath him.

“You look so good for me, Astarion,” Wyll murmurs, voice thick with lust, confirming Astarion’s thoughts. “If only you could behave as prettily as you look.”

“W-Where—hah, mm…—where would be the fun in that?” he responds wickedly. And the man above him beams, not a single word needed to express just how much he agrees.

Wyll slips his fingers out—he’d worked up to three while lubing up, enough to give Astarion the stretch he loved without hurting him—and lowers himself over the vampire carefully. He rests most of his weight on his knees and forearm, despite many months of insistence on his lover's part that he could lay completely on him just fine. With a gentle nudge at Astarion’s thighs with his knees to make space for his body between his legs, he takes only a few moments to get comfortable. And then he’s smiling down at his lover, indulgent as he can be, before dipping low for a sweet kiss. The game pauses here, in this pocket of time right before he presses against his entrance, because he knows in the forthcoming moments he will not be kind. He wants to remind Astarion of how much he adores him, bring him forth out of the cloudy haze of fantasy to the reality of their romance. He will be rough, and bruising, and possibly even cruel with denial. But it is from a place of love and affection, never maliciousness.

And then Astarion feels the nudge of his tip at his entrance, and the smile on Wyll’s lips turns wicked.

“Call the pinfall. Last chance.”

“Go fuck yourself, darling,” Astarion coos back, too much affection in the words to be properly venomous.

“Why would I need to? I have you to use for that,” he pushes in now, sliding home in one swift moment. Astarion mewls, back arching off of the ground and eyes rolling. It’s exactly what he’d been wanting. Stretched so perfectly across his man, swiftly filled to the brim with cock. “Don’t I, pet?”

“Oh, Gods, yes,” Astarion sighs, not so much an answer to his inquiry but more of an encouragement to his fiancé to keep going. Wyll, however, pulls out to the tip on the next stroke and gives a disapproving look. If looks could kill, he’d drop dead between his lovers legs. Instead, his face smooths out into a cheeky smile.

“Hm. But I think you can take me deeper than that, can’t you?” Hitching both hands under the vampire's knees, he gently pushes his legs up and apart. Astarion folds in half quite easily—two centuries of forced flexibility coming right in hand. “Hold these for me, will you, love?”

“You are a,” Astarion reaches under his legs to hold his knees up, spread just like Wyll requests. He doesn’t argue, though he would be remiss not to complain. Especially when the request tints his cheeks such a bright pink, and Wyll is still giving him that cheeky, knowing look. “magnificent bastard, my dear.”

It's a frankly lewd position to be in—spread wide open like a cheap whore, an illuminated trail of grease leaking over his pale asscheeks. He's exposed entirely now, quite literally the definition of vulnerable, with only his smalls still hanging feebly off of one ankle. It's made even more scandalizing by the locale. Astarion is briefly reminded that any unfortunate recruit or unlucky night guard wandering around could stumble across them on the training grounds. But there's a rush of a thrill to even that, the threat of humiliation doing wondrous things to his already painfully hard erection. They could be caught, and he worries he wouldn't feel an iota of mortification. They could be caught, and all it would mean is someone else sees. See how tenderly he's held—no, owned by this brilliant man. Even when he is acting like a prick, or being disobedient, or refusing to do something so simple as admitting he's been beaten. Even when he's so defiant that he has to be a taught a lesson right in the middle of the range. Even then, he will be looked after by his master, his lover, his fiance, his Wyll.

Wyll smiles down at him knowingly, as if he'd read his throughts, before taking proper hold of his hips and slamming deep into him.

He sets a punishing pace outright, both of them too impatient to waste time. It would be maddening with any average cock, but Wyll is hardly average. Six bumpy ridges line the underside of his shaft—each of them roughly an inch or so apart. They were soft and pliable when he was flaccid, but when filled with arousal became firm. With the delicious curve to Wyll’s cock, each one caught perfectly on his prostate. It made him delirious, cock-drunk, driven mad with euphoria.

Astarion is left to claw uselessly at his own thighs, forbidden for now from reaching up to hold onto his horns but being properly railed to the point of thoughtlessness. Wyll covers him with his body, sinks his teeth into the place where his shoulder becomes his neck, and fucks him in long, inevitable strokes. Each one pounds home harsher than the last, lewd wet sounds of skin on skin and the crude squelching of grease filling the night air around their respective sounds of pleasure.

It’s delightful. His eyes roll back in his head, bottom lip caught on his canine as he chews at the soft flesh desperately. Wyll gives him exactly what he deserves, what he needs. One hand, still slippery with grease, takes a bruising grip to his hips whilst the other strokes him in tandem. A veritable assault of pleasure on every receptor in his body—the repetitive motion against his prostate, the contrasting sweet strokes along his shaft, the moans of satisfaction from the man he loves that betray just how much Wyll gets from this too.

Every so often, Astarion works himself up to the brink of an orgasm. He’ll feel it building up slowly—not the crash off the edge he’s accustomed to but a slow steady increase of tension. A dawning horizon of ecstasy, eclipsing all reasonable thought and leaving him reduced to increasingly labored pants of Wyll’s name. He’ll get right there at the peak, trembling with it, before his fiancé would harshly clamp off his release and kiss him softly in return.

After the third time, Wyll panting against his neck and tears welling in his eyes from denial, he gives a frustrated sob. Seemingly having enough of his cruel bit of play, the man above him gently takes over the hold of his legs. Heels dig into Wyll’s back like spurs, long lithe legs strap around the other man's waist and cling on desperately. With his hands free, Astarion takes the liberty to express some of his frustration. He brings his hands up to dig into the man’s shoulders. Presses his nails deep into the dark flesh until he can smell pinpricks of blood, feel the tacky liquid slowly pool beneath his fingertips.

Wyll hisses in response and sinks his teeth into the crook of his shoulder in return. “Still haven't had enough, have you? I can do this all night, love.”

He’s sure his partner can’t; he’s only human, after all, and they’d used up a good deal of stamina on the sparring. But he’s not interested in arguing the point; his cock is thick and heavy against his stomach, weeping milky white on his navel. He doesn’t want to wait a second longer.

“You win, darling,” Astarion demands through gritted teeth. “Now, please, I need it. I need you.”

And here, it peaks. The turn of the game where Astarion gives Wyll what he needs out of it. To be needed. To be useful. To be able to give everything his lover desires, and more. If Astarion has spent his whole existence bucking authority, then Wyll has wasted so much of his trying to appeal to it. Or one figure of authority, in particular. An entire lifetime of being denied such simple pleasures such as a ‘Good job, Wyll’ or ‘I’m proud of you’ had done irreparable damage to his beloved Blade.

Astarion can’t fix any of that. But he can work at it like this. Giving Wyll the chance to do something good, and making sure he knew how thoroughly he’d accomplished the task. By whatever means necessary. If it means cowing a bit, giving into his own desires and allowing himself to slip fully into obedience, well then... birds and stones.

It works, of course. Wyll moans, deep and low in his chest. He sounds a little fuck-drunk when he speaks, muttering sweet nothings into pallid flesh as he readjusts his hold. “I have you. Gonna give you what you need, I promise…”

They’re both so close to the edge. Wyll pulls back to stare Astarion in the eyes—sentimental fool that he is, he always had a harder time getting off if he couldn’t see his face. There’s love and adoration there in that crimson iris of his, as there always is and certainly always will be.

Sometimes it’s too much, to be regarded so sweetly, and Astarion would bury his face in the pillows. But right now, he can only stare wide-eyed up at the man he loves, begging, pleading, groveling for whatever he has to give. The vampire spawn, completely and thoroughly tamed by his monster hunter.

Astarion leans up hesitantly, laves his tongue over the bite marks he’d left on his lover early that morning. They’re still bruised but beginning to close over, Wyll deliberately forgoing a healing potion so that everyone could see. He quite liked the world knowing that the malicious little vampire that stalked the shadows of the training grounds was his. That he fed him, he satisfied him, he took care of every one of his needs. Wyll would preen like a peacock when his brothers in arms would rib him about the marks. He never divulged a single detail of their sex life—let all the rumors do the talking. But Astarion knows just how much the intrigue it aroused fluffed his ego.

It’s why he pricks his teeth against the slowly healing punctures and whines, needy even to his own ears. Wyll’s hand moves from his hip to hold the back of his head, cradling him lovingly against his neck to grant permission.

He bites down immediately. His mouth is flooded with the heavy, thick flavor of ecstasy. The heat builds in two places in his stomach now, reaching a boiling point. He is close to the meltdown, release hurtling towards him like an inferno. He embraces it all the same, swallowing his monster hunter's blood greedily in service of his own pleasure. He takes one mouthful and moans as he feels hotness of it rush through him, another and it’s all he needs to finally catch up to his orgasm, spilling messily over Wyll’s hand and his own exposed belly. He only pulls off to moan, eyes rolling and vocal chords overworked as he shouts his man's praises. It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to coming together because Wyll tumbles after him quickly after—pumping once, twice more before his hips stutter in a broken staccato and he's painting Astarion's insides with a throaty groan.

When they lay in the post-coital haze, Wyll slumped over Astarion and Astarion thrumming both with the man’s blood and mind-blowing orgasm, he can’t help but give a delirious little giggle. High and musical, shot through with all the mischievousness he still has.

Wyll doesn’t have the energy to lift his head up, but he does give a muffled, “What is it?” into the other man's sweat-drenched locks.

“Now your armor is going to have stains in the knees.”

A weary sigh from the man above him. He hadn’t been planning on laundering his armor just yet—usually, he put it off to do it alongside the recruits. Something about morale and camaraderie that Astarion didn’t care about. “I know. You’re a bad influence.”

A remorseless snort. “Oh, darling, aren’t I absolutely incorrigible? You should probably do something about that.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Wyll kisses his neck sweetly, tone noncommittal. “but then where would the fun be in that?”

#time to kill: astarion ancunín #bloodpact: so much shadow around us #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #wyllstarion #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #bloodblade: wyllstarion #baldur’s gate 3 #bloodpact #bloodblade #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #well done soldier!: prompt fill #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll

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islanddevil716 · 6 months ago

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I AM A WRITER ON A03 AND WATTPAD UNDER "Islanddevil716" and this story is widespread on both of my accounts

Based a year after the first chapter and before the Epilogue.. This pt.2 shows how them babies got here LOL

(If u don't like wolves, growling, teeth and blood and ⬇️.. yk what to do ♡)

‼️TW WATERSPORTS 🧍🏽‍♀️

Also, there's wolf shex and honestly I pondered whether I should cut that part out of wattpad bc it scared the last bunch last year so I was thinking I'll add the sex version to Ao3 if it's too much here ♡ but I was like oh well bc 1. That's like half the story and 2. there's people on here that don't have Ao3 or can't get into it. So skip it ho bc it's dirty and again. I took a very wild idea and ran with it I'm being so fr its dirty n hot n taboo here literally leave :D

Like actually don't read this pls uhm 😝☠️

GO REREAD THE FIRST CHAPTER SO U REMEMBER THEIR LITTLE TELEPATHY BOND AND STUFF N UR HAIR IS this➡️‼️ RED DONT FORGET UR EYE EITHER. yk wat go read the whole thing again if u can't remember n want this one to make sense.

"Konig!" You yell throughout the house, you were awake which means some more alone time with your mate.

But you couldn't find him anywhere, figuring he went on an early hunting trip with the younger ones, teaching them how to come into their moon phases and handling their instincts better.

You walk outside and sit next to the pond a little bummed that he wasn't around this time, you were used to his trips and knew he'd come back soon but this time felt different.

You longed for him as if you didn't just see him last night, but when he was around you wanted to bite him and make him fuck you.

It was all new and strange for you.

After sitting there for a few minutes and the sadness doesn't fade, you stand to go back to your room and wait for his return.

Before you could take a step away, a large paw is at your back and pinning you back down to the ground on your stomach.

He could smell your arousal of wanting to play and feel your melancholy through the woods. He wasn't far, he never was.

"Gotcha." You feel him in your head and he gives a snicker at how small you are under his large paw, watching you squirm.

He had a slight size kink he's noticed.

"Not funny!" You shriek and kick your legs when he sits down, still holding you there as he licks the blood off the top of his other paw.

He rolls his red eyes humorously before he speaks in your mind.

"Come on, you know I don't go far." His reassurance was all but that, you've felt indescribably hot since he's left and haven't been able to satiate it resulting in a terrible attitude.

"Let me up, you're getting me dirty!" You squirm some more and he watches you wiggle your ass, getting a stronger scent of your slick pussy practically begging for him.

"Ohh that's why you're so insistent, eh?" He was taunting you now, you knew he could smell you.

"Shut up and let me up!" You yell, hearing his degrading chuckle in your head but he picks his paw up anyway.

You dust your black dress off, you were always playing dress up with all the dresses he got you and twice as many shoes. You even had a wedding ring to match each outfit you had, wearing your black oval diamond ring. The clasps on your heels matched the white diamonds on your wedding band.

"I oughta pull your tail, gettin me all dusty!" You whine loudly, your voice a higher octave than usual, making his pointy ears flatten against his head.

"Wet too, an I don't mind lickin ya clean." He stands and struts passed you and forms back before you could turn around and follow him.

He couldn't quite place why you were being so whiney lately, extra feverish and practically dripping down your legs every morning but wouldn't let him touch you.

You didn't find his little pranks like he pulled just a second ago funny, you used to and now he gets scolded like the dog he is. More often anyway.

"Where were you?" You follow him up the stairs, quite quickly which he's used to. Your speed has always been an advantage, but right now he was worried you might bite his head off.

"Hunting, maus, why?" You keep following him into the bathroom, watching him run the water for a shower as he stands there naked all dirty, sweaty and sexy and he smelled like blood and pine.. your senses were heightened more than usual too.

"I-" You stop your sentence and walk away, upset for an unknown reason. At him though, you couldn't understand the unreasonable anger.

He wasn't doing anything wrong, but it was more of what he wasn't doing and you didn't wanna ask. He should know.

Fucking mind reader.

Your thoughts were ramblings of unintelligible anger and sexual visions of his wolf, which made him tilt his head in question.

For someone so adamant that she couldn't fuck a wolf, our mind sure had some nasty ideas. He liked them.

You were needing a fight; dominance and didn't want to resist, you wanted him to just make you.

Whatever that may be.

"Come here. Now." Your mates' booming voice makes your legs tremble, unable to deny his powerful authority over you despite your desired defiance so you do what he says, scurrying to stand in front of him with a pout.

He hasn't had to use his influence over you like that in a while.

"What's your problem, hm?" He grabs your jaw, leaning down and studying your face as if he's never seen you before.

"I don't know." You answer honestly, and he growls, showing a few of his canine teeth.

"I don't like it." He stands to his full height, looming over you and making you feel small. You tug at the edge of your dress, almost nervous with his powerful glare.

You didn't know what to say, but for the first time this week you didn't notice the anger as heavy in this moment.

You stare up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

Without a word, he's pulling you into the shower with him and under the water with your clothes and heels on even.

"Konig!" You shriek again, but he just growls loudly, using his power over you to make you feel drunk as you call it.

"Shhh, gonna fix that little fucking attitude." He pushes you into the shower wall, your palms and cheek flat against the tile.

All you could do was whine and hope he gives you what you needed, letting your mind get dirty and show him everything you're craving.

"Dirty girl this week, what's gotten into you, maus?" He asks as he watches you whine and squirm like a cat in heat.

And it dawns on him. Rutting season, didn't matter that you weren't wolf- you were his and susceptible to his cycles and this was your first time feeling the effects of a mating season.

He's just always been so used to being alone that he's powered over his seasonal ruts, the feeling not as overwhelming for him like the rest as he locked it away within himself.

He now lets the pheromones trickle through his senses, feeling the charged sexual energy within the air and uses that to release that feral side of him he's locked up every season.

He shoves your dress up and yanks your panties down your legs, leaving them at your ankles.

He pushes two fingers inside your already slick pussy for good measure, pulling them out and slapping your wet cunt. You moan, pushing back for him to do it again.

"Like when I slap your pussy like that, eh?" He chuckles.

"Just a couple more-" He bites his lip, slapping your cunt and pushing two fingers inside and repeats two more times.

"Please-" You whisper and all you see is his wolf in your mind and he watches your thoughts and sees what you really need. Smirking to himself, he nips the back of your thigh before he stands and wraps his arms around you from behind.

"Get away if you can, maus, because right now that's all you are. My maus to play with, eat and suck on like a little toy." He growls deep and low from his chest while he watches you struggle in your inebriated state to step your heels out of the panties around your ankles.

You whimper and drop to your knees and try crawling away from the bathroom, giving him a good view of your naked ass and pussy peeking from your short dress.

He turns back to his wolf, ready to fuck you around like you've needed.

'Pathetic get away attempt, maus. Did you not learn how to escape a wolf?' He laughs at your weak attempt, mocking how vampires take classes on how to fight wolves.

He walks a circle around you, sizing you up like a regular predator does.

'Been denying me all week. Nipping at me, hissing and being a brat.' Your thoughts were all his voice now, feeling him stand tall in his wolf form, looking down at you with his red eyes.

"Yes." Is all you can say, your tongue and eyes heavy. It was overwhelming, the influence of his power. You felt drugged, slow and unsteady as if you were on a boat.

'You smell so good-' His teeth were showing in a small growl, to anyone else it'd look like he was about to maul you but you knew otherwise.

He stands over your soaked frame with two paws on either side of your hips, his large snout leaning down to sniff your hair and the hormones coming from you are insatiable.

You arch your back, pushing your ass back for him like the slut in heat you were.

"All for you." You bite your lip and look back at him, cheek flush with the tiled floor. He enjoyed watching you pathetically whine and grind for him before he even did anything with you, seeing your cute little pussy drip in heat for him.

He pushes you back down flat on the floor with his paw and nudged you over with his nose so you're on your back and begins nuzzling in your neck and kissing you all over to hear your giggles.

Your hooded eyes and rosey cheeks gave the impression of you being drunk, you felt like it but it was the fever that came with the heat waves and the influence of his power over you.

Holding his gaze, you reach down and begin to rub your clit to tease him further while sucking two fingers on your other hand before fingering your wet hole for him.

He licks your knee, down to your inner thigh and nudges your hands away and nips at them.

'Keep them out of my way.' His voice rumbles through your head; you feel his warm, heavy paw on your lower tummy as he begins lapping at your needy cunt.

Usually you'd try to push him off, run away or squeal in embarrassment if he'd try to mess around while he was still wolf- you wanted it this time, being extraordinarily submissive.

Something new for the fire that's grown inside you over the last week, and he's loving every second of it.

You run your fingers through his thick, black fur on top of his head and your other wraps around his pointy ear as you watch his large tongue lick your whole pussy in one swipe.

'Sweet little fucking cunt, so fucking good.' He voice growls within you.

Your eyes roll, moaning his name and mumbling something of a "good boy." He perks his ears, his eyes meeting yours when he sees you smirking down at him like a smart ass.

'What does sarcasm earn you, maus? Tell me.' He nips at your leg, making you yelp and laugh.

Your hazy smile still graced your lips, your red cheeks making you all the more cuter to him with your smart mouth.

You push his head awah and turn over again, arching your back for him and he internally smirks.

"Can't spank me like this, though, can ya?" You taunt and he bares his teeth again.

'Naughty maus.' His voice was deep in your brain this time and left you reeling.

'I have something else for you though.' He sounded more sultry, more sneaky.

"Yea." You lazily agree, getting lost deeper in the mind-numbing authority he casts over you.

He lays down, so big he's still level with you when he does.

"Lick it, please." You huff, and he narrows his eyes at you but abides your wishes, enjoying the way you let out a moan of relief.

It felt so good, so naughty, and he enjoyed the way you craved him.

It was almost better than ever with his tongue bigger and wetter, his heavy paw rested over your calf and kept you in place.

It was what you needed, craved and ached for. Each swipe of his tongue more delicious than the previous and elicits tingles throughout your body, mewling softly in tune with his steady growl.

You were wiggling your ass in his face, pushing back and wouldn't stay still and making him growl irritably at you as he stands.

You smirk, knowing you've riled him up. It was unlike you to be this mischievous and bratty towards him.

'Stay fuckin' still.' He snarls as you feel him mount you, his large teeth right next to your face.

You were whimpering, shaking with anticipation of feeling his heavy weight atop you on your bathroom floor.

'Little defiant maus, fuck, look at you.' He rubs his large cock against your pussy.

'Gonna have to work you through takin me, hm? Tiny little thing.' You feel the tip of his warm cock work inside you, in and out until your pussy took his thick tip easily.

'Feel that, maus? How tight your pussy grips me-' He was excited, having to control his speed so he wouldn't hurt you.

You laid there, drunk with his power, letting him play and toy with you as he pleased.

Your pussy throbbed and begged, letting more of him in so you spread your legs more. It was comfortable, his warmth and soft fur agaisnt your wet skin; it was heaven.

'Like it when I tease that little cunt?' He slides his cock in past the tip, stretching you out.

"Uh huh-" You whined, trying to fuck yourself on him in a series of repeated, loud whimpers.

'Come on, you can go deeper than that-' He taunts, matching his thrusts with yours. His large, veiny cock throbbed, he needed to fit and feel your heat and flood your womb with his cum.

'Fuck my cock, maus, just like that-' He spurs you on, your pretty pussy stretched over not even half of his cock and you were already whining and crying.

'You can't give up yet.' He teases and you whimper, sweat covering every inch of your body.

His animalistic grunts and growls grew heavier as he focused on your little frame, taking him the best you could as your hands flattened on the tile hold yourself there.

Your body rocking with each thrust, your moans turning into yelps. He was so thick, so big and overwhelming as he got deeper. Cock too wide to press further; you felt something else building up in your bladder and panicked.

"I think-" You huff, your brows furrowing. He needed you to cum when he did so your orgasm increases the probability of his cum fertilizing your eggs, fucking you fast and deep.

His sinful grunts and mumbled mindless words repeat as he slams every inch into you.

'Take it, kleine maus, take this big cock and have my pups, mama.'

"Konig!" You practically scream, feeling your orgasm grow hot in your abdomen until you're dripping cum and accidentally pee with how hard he was going.

'Ffffuck, maus.' He groans, white thick ropes of cum coating your insides while you squirmed. Your pussy contracting so hard around him you almost couldn't take it, his knot holding you still as you whimpered and moaned for him.

'Awwe little pussy too small for me, mm.'

His dark chuckle makes you whine, his warmth making you break out in a small sweat beneath his thick fur.

You could feel his cum leaking inside you, your cervix overflown and full as you were gone in subspace.

When his knot releases he pulls out, his throbbing cock dripping in cum as he licks your small hole once more and your eyes roll.

'What type of a husband would I be if I didn't clean after myself.' His deep chuckle in your head makes you blush, you'd be embarrassed if he wasn't damn near snout deep in it and licking in a frenzy like he couldn't get enough. He loved it when it got dirty, he's a wolf, after all.

He pulls back after a few licks and takes a few paces back so he could change back to his human form and devour you easier, to finalize your pregnancy with his human sperm.

Poor thing, you'd beat his ass if you spit out a litter of puppies instead of a human hybrid baby.

He picks you up, getting you to stand and walks you back towards the wall. You rub yourself on him, your hands running up his muscular arms. He kisses you deeply, letting you grind on his knee between your legs as he held you close to him.

You arch your back, pushing your chest into his warm, bare skin and moan into his mouth. Your eyes closed as you savored your husband, letting him guide the kiss to get sloppier as his affection for you takes over once more.

"I always have to restrain myself around you, so easily breakable." He whispers against your lips and pulls your soaking wet dress off in one swoop.

"I heal." You counter back, kissing him again and wrapping your arms around his neck.

He picks you up, taking you to the bed and tosses you on it before grabbing your ankle and dragging you to the footboard where he stood. You get to your knees in front of him, looking up at him from the bed.

He watches you lick your lips, looking at his scarred and defined body. His wide cock standing straight up, his piercings glistening under the light.

"You're so handsome." You purr, looking up at him with the sexiest bedroom eyes he's ever seen as you lay on your stomach in fromt of him. You take his dick in your hand and run your tongue over his Jacob's ladder, getting a long groan from Konig.

"Thank you, beautiful." His left hand buries itself in your bright red hair as you take the tip of his cock in your mouth and drool over it, letting your mouth fill with saliva and run down over his cock and your hand.

He softly thrusts his hips, barely fucking into your mouth with his tip teasing the back of your throat. Even in human form, his dick was unbelievable, wide with good length. It was breathtaking.

You take him out and all but beg, your hand going between your legs to play in the slick he's caused.

"Such a good kleine maus." He strokes his cock, rubbing the tip on your slobbery lips.

You give it one last lick before clinging to him, standing on the bed and wrapping yourself around him so he has to grab your hips. He loosens his grip so you'll slide down on his wet dick, taking him in one glide and scratching his back as you do.

"That's right, good fucking girl, yes." He growls, his grip tightening around your waist. You grind and rub on him, your naked chests pressed together with your hearts in sync.

You kiss his jaw tenderly, feeling him deep in your cervix, soft and slow unlike the passion exploding within one another. He cradles your head against him, kissing your head before he lays down with you beneath him on the bed.

He continues fucking you, slow and deep and drawing out those soft moans he loves so much.

He holds your hands above your head, intertwining his fingers with yours as he continues kissing you sensually.

"God those beautiful whimpers, I could listen to you for hours." He trails his kisses to your cheek, down your neck and back to your kiss-swollen lips.

He runs his hands down your body, cupping your breasts and pinching the nipple of one. Your body jerks against his, making him smirk before he sucks one into his mouth.

You wrap your legs around his waist, digging your nails into his back once more and getting a deep groan from him.

He wraps a hand around your neck, fucking you deep with a hand pressing down on your tummy.

"Look at me, liebe, eyes up here." He growls, watching you get lost in your pleasurable haze.

"Watch me fuck you maus, keep those eyes open." He adjusts his grip on your neck, watching you try to keep above consciousness.

You see him through a blurry film over your eyes, gripping his wrist.

"Gonne pump you full of my cum all night, all of it." He kept true to his promise, and somehow you were surprised when the doctor said you'd be having twins.

A month later.

"I'm sorry, what?" You ask the nurse who's trying to show you the black and white screen on the monitor showcasing your two healthy babies.

"You're pregnant, with twins." He says again and you sit there on the bed, staring at him and Konig.

"You said two, there's two?!" If your eyebrows could've raised any further they'd be through the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, two?" You squeak loudly and the doctor clears his throat, nodding.

"No, that can't.. no!" You whine, looking at the screen and seeing the babies as clear as day.

"Yes ma'am, you see when-"

"I know how babies are made!" You screech, cutting off the doctor but he keeps his composure and pushes his glasses up.

"Actually, these aren't regular babies. You nor your husband are fully human, you're going to need to know what to expect." The doctor began rambling things you'd go through, meanwhile you're still scowling at Konig who's standing in corner with his mask on. Even so, you can tell by his body language how proud he is.

No wonder wolf women get so ornery and pissy with their mate during a heat, they know what they're facing if they bend over for their man.

"You better keep that tail tucked or I'm pulling it straight off when we get outta here." You bare your teeth at Konig, who'd flatten his ears at the threat if he was wolf right now, you can just imagine it.

Your attitude causes the doctor to shut up and grab your discharge papers, handing them to Konig before he steps out so you can change.

"Baby, it's not that bad-"

"That bad? That's two, two of your big headed fat shouldered selves growing in me!" Your voice reaching that high octave you get when you're pissy.

All he could do was listen to you fuss him out, putting your panties on for you while you pulled the dress over your head.

He buckled your heels for you and watches you practically run away from him.

You storm out of the exam room, the door hitting the wall on your way out.

People in the waiting room immediately draw their attention to the noise, watching you yank the exit door open and leave him to follow behind you.

The women in the waiting room look up, wide eyed as they stare at their leader.

"We're having twins." Konig says as to explain your pissy attitude and they immediately dismiss the scene as they knew the anger all too well, most of them going back to doing what they were before.

They were just surprised to see someone, even you, showing defiance and sass to their King. But you wouldn't be his Queen if you couldn't handle him, but they see how that's the other way around.

Ever since your arrival, they've watched their leader abide by your every wish, follow you like he's a lost pup and tuck his tail when you fuss and pitch a fit when he gets too brute-like.

Even when you send him away, he reverts back to his old tactics and stays close to you but out of your eyesight.

Like now, Konig follows behind you, holding your bag and sunglasses in his hand.

Even in heels, your speed and agility had him trying to keep up. He had alot of advantages and skill, but when it came to speed you had him beat. At least in his human form anyway.

"Don't make me do it." He calls after you, referring to his manipulation technique to influence you.. make you feel all dizzy and warm inside.

He didn't do it often, he didn't like having to make you listen and subdue you with his abilities. But sometimes..

You don't listen, leaving him behind and watching you ahead on the paved trail that goes back to the castle.

Within these woods was a whole community of buildings amongst the main castle everyone lived in, there was a hospital and a training center that was located not too far behind the huge castle.

They had a jail that was nothing but steel plated walls within the building, the cells were encrypted with a spell that kept dangerous wolves from turning whenever they wanted, they were reduced to their human abilities during their sentencing. He never jailed anyone longer than necessary either, keeping them in there for the entirety of eight moon phases.

It was Konigs way of keeping the peace so their kind wouldn't infiltrate societies prisons. To avoid putting their secret out there he had to build his own world in the woods while also maintaining his humanitarian status, becoming a well known businessman and dealing with dangerous affairs on the governments part.

That way if his wolves act up in society, he'd be the first one notified so he could retrieve them and bring them back to The Jail For Lycanthropy.

There were smaller buildings for daycare, entertainment shops as well as places you could go to buy things to mask your scent or reduce the fever during a heat. Things you cant buy in the normal world.

Everyone had a part to play here and in the human world, maintaining peace and secrecy of their lives all while protecting their pack as well as humans from the bad ones.

Konig was the Colonel, leader, King, Alpha- he was all of them in every form and led their Lycan Militia within the society.

It was mandatory being how vampires were always feuding with them, as well as wolves who pose a certain threat to society; ones with abilities no one else is born with.

Some special wolves can't be tamed or sheltered, resulting in a pack of rebel wolves who never learned to properly maintain their self or control their urges. But the worst one, the leader who came to solely to learn how to control his wolf, used the knowledge and still rebelled and built his own empire outside of Konigs.

"Looks like you've succeeded in carrying that bloodline." You see a figure step from the woods, causing you to halt and hold your breath.

"Konig?" You ask and feel him at your side and immediately push yourself into him.

"I'm here, maus." He soothes you, staring into the eyes of his enemy.

"Who is that?" You ask, looking at the shirtless man who's scarred all over, his face and his torso were decorated with claw and bite marks.

"Someone I should've eaten a long time ago-" Konig growls and steps forward with force, as does the other guy, making you gasp when you see Konig form into his wolf.

You stumble back and cover your mouth, you'd have to lust after his transformation later- shit was gettin real.

Konig lunged for the blonde wolf, going for the jugular first and they tumble into the pavement and it cracks beneath them.

Some smaller looking wolves start to jump in, attacking Konig from the back.

You screamed for help, knowing you're in Konigs world and his team would back him in no time.

Too many young wolves ready to use their skills while their fathers warriors of their time. Was this guy stupid to come here and challenge your King?

Out from the woods emerge some faces you recognize, their fur patterns too distinct not to; that's why they dyed them in such fashion.

One of them run to your side, they were all smaller than an Alpha but bigger than a regular wolf, still it was mesmerizing to see.

"I don't know what's going on, we were walking from the hospital and this guy just showed up out of no where and they started fighting." You tell the brown wolf with pink hearts on her back, she tilts her head at you; confused as to why you weren't helping your mate.

Her topaz eyes look into yours and you wish the telepathy thing worked universally and not with just your mate.

She does a circle around you, sniffing extra hard before making a gruff sound, she comes and sits in front of you and her big eyes bore into yours.

"What?" You ask, instinctively flattening a hand acoess your tummy when you hear their painful whines and growls as the wolves fight to defend their home.

The heart decorated wolf nudges your hand from your tummy and boops her nose on it, sitting back down and looking up at you.

"We just found out. Literally." You tell her and she opens her mouth and grabs your hand, extra cautious of her teeth.

"I can't leave him!" You try to pull your hand back but she growls, she'd drag you away by your dress if she had to.

You were carrying the next king and/or queen, Konig would take her position as a soldier if she didnt defend his Queen and babies as he would.

She's a mother as well, her son had just started his training this week. It's in their blood to defend and fight.

It didn't matter to her that you were a vampire or human, you were her Queen and she trusted Konig with her whole being after seeing how he's maintained life within the forest for all these years.

You look back in time to see your family surround the blonde wolf and his posse, Konig towering over them all as blood dripped from his mouth. The scar across his face now bleeding once again and you frowned.

More kept leaping at him, leaving him to take a stand while more of his soldiers run to his aid.

Once you were safe, the girl forms back, unashamed of her nakedness. She stands and smiles and points to your belly.

"The heat got to you too, huh?" She laughs, tossing her hot pink hair over her shoulder as she grabs her clothes that she had stuffed in a tree trunk.

"Yea.." You sigh, feeling hungry and missing Konig already, extra worried for his safety and what this means for the pack.

"Who was that?" You ask Shelly, looking ahead through the trees as she dresses herself.

"That's Nikto, been around as long as Konig or so I've heard. He wants what we've got here, he don't want to be a part of it. He wants to run it. He used to be apart of the family, trained here and slept here." She pulls her shorts up and comes to sit next to you on the large rock.

"Well what happened, whyd he rebell?" You ask, bringing your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs.

She begins braiding her hair as she speaks, readying herself to protect you efficiently while she gets you to safety.

"He was part of the soldier pack, until one night it was time to lead a vanguard towards the rebels of The Chosen. He turned on his own group, helping the outcasts slaughter and maul every last one. He then taught them what he knew and became their Alpha, he's been growing his nonconformist group ever since." She looks over at you and grabs your hand, pulling you to stand with her.

You look over her doll like features, her little heart tattoo under her eye was cute and fit her personality despite her job. She was the first girl you noticed that night Konig brought you home for the first time, back then her wolf was all pink.

"Any minute the alarm will sound, which means every soldier young, old, and retired will take their stance through the night. No one knows how big this group has gotten, and until we do it's time to lock down. We've built too much here,mine and yours kids future's rely on this place. Come on." She keeps you close, and you cling to her as you look around.

She gets you through the woods away from the trail and reaches the castle from the back. You were looking ahead to the pond you had just visited this morning, and realize how close to home the intruders were.

"They were so close." You whisper and hear a crack behind you, Shelly turns around and yanks you behind her, seeing a man-like wolf.

"I can smell the pregnancy coming from her, his babies. The kings. We're here to collect." He looked animalistic, not fully human or wolf but something in between and you grit your teeth.

"You don't need my babies." You hiss from behind Shelly.

"You don't deserve to carry either bloodline any further. You're all disgraces to us. But we're here for you." He didn't make sense and you didn't care, you just wanted to sink your teeth into his pulse, hearing it extra loud and clear as his veins rush with adrenaline.

"Run." Shelly yells and lurches forward into her wolf as does the other guy, they connect and snip and claw at one another.

You watch, unable to leave her alone even though she's winning.

She was a ruthless fighter, her motherly rage was easy to channel when she needed to.

You hear footsteps and turn in time to see another intruder make his way to you, running full speed, his gray fur shining in the sun.

You dart back through the woods the way you came in hopes of finding Konig. You were zipping between trees, dodging branches and spiderwebs. The wolf was on your tail though, any slower and you'd be in-between his toothy snare.

"Konig!!" You scream so loud the wolf behind you halts, the pitch deafening him for a moment. Their hearing was sensitive, able to tune into many frequencies so naturally it'd fuck him up for a moment.

Konig hears you scream close by, and for the first time since he was chained up years ago and had to watch you leave with Alexei, he panicks.

Suddenly nothing hurt, and his opponent seems too small and he snaps them in half with his teeth.

More had come, surrounding him and his soldiers and being the man he is, he took the hits and bites for them but manages to claw his way out of the frenzied fight and runs towards you.

"Liebe! hear you! I'm coming!' He sounded ragged, even in your head, but you kept running until you ran into a big wall of fur.

You clung to him, your arms trying to wrap around his neck but he's too big.

He was panting and limping, a deep laceration on his side had his fur wet with blood as it dripped.

'Ich bin hier, meine kleine Maus, i'm here.' He sounded so tired, you grab his face on both sides and look into his eyes. He blinked slowly, and his legs began to weaken.

"Hey, no no don't do that. Don't sleep." You go down with him until you're on your knees, he lays on his side and begins breathing rapidly.

"Oh no no, Konig-" You blink a tear away, you didn't know much about canine anatomy and how to help them but you tried.

"Here we just-" You strip from your dress and sit back on your knees and put pressure on the bleeding wound with the dress.

"We gotta stop the bleeding, and and maybe... can you breathe?" You ask, your voice shaky but he doesn't answer.

He had to take the brunt of the attack for his soldiers, they were young and some had just began their training, it was his job as a leader to protect them.

Of course he'd never leave you, if he could just muster the energy to use his power once more...

'I need... you to listen to me, maus, listen.' He opens his eyes and you're right there in his face once he began speaking.

"I'm listening, anything to help you. Anything." You sniff, your tears falling on his black furry face but he doesn't mind.

'Your eye, it's time, maus. I must let it out, only a little.' He was wheezy, bleeding internally as well.

"What? H-how? I don't-"

'Bite me, I will do my best to muster enough power to drain a little poison I had stored in your eye. But you have to extend those fangs on your own though, can you do that maus?' He was being so sweet, it broke your heart to see him down like this.

You wiped your face, sniffing the snot away and gaining your composure for him. Every second counts.

You close your eyes and begin to focus around your teeth, feeling your gums gain a pricking sensation and then it feels cool like peppermint has flooded your mouth. It's poison.

"Where do I bite you?" You ask, your hands buried in his now matted and bloodied fur.

He'd make a mental note to visit the local groomer after this..

Some men would feel weak having their girl save their ass. He felt honored, so much gratitude coursing through him despite the crushing pain he felt in his lungs.

He couldn't go back human, the transformation alone would kill him even if he lived through a transformation to be human- the wounds would kill him. What he sustains as a wolf isn't sustainable for a human body.

He wasn't prepared for an attack like that, things have been so peaceful within the pack since you've been here. He's been softer, giving less homework and training days and he quit scaring his wolves into submission.

You changed him for the better, unknowingly taming him into a sweet and soft lap dog who listens to their owner like a good boy as you've called him.

But this, this attack enraged him. Just when he's found out his liebling is carrying his sweet babies, he gets ambushed.

Something like this would turn any man into their former monster, there used to be days he'd stay wolf. He wouldn't go back human unless absolutely necessary, leading his soldiers to nip the problems in the bud.

To protect you and his family, he'd gladly become that monster again.

He lays there, feeling the adrenaline spiking as he thinks of all the ways he'll tear those wolves to pieces.

'Just bite, liebling.' He urges and feels your teeth sink into his bleeding wound, it looked good..

He yelps and its enough to shock him into being able to drain the poison into the wound, he stops it when he feels it repair his muscles and fill his lungs back up.

You retract your teeth and go back to his face, grabbing him.

"Did it work?" You lick your lips, your face and hands covered in his blood.

'I'm okay, you did so good, meine kleine one.' He sounded better, you could hear his heart beating better as well and his lungs fill.

"What do we do now?" You grab your flat tummy, wondering when it'll start to grow.

'I get you home.' He sounded dangerous as he stood, his eyes going from a black red to just black.

He grabs your bloody dress with his mouth and drops it on your lap, looking around and standing guard over you.

You wring the blood out from the black dress, and pull it back over your head.

Your red kool-aid colored hair disheveled from its blowout look, you couldn't worry about it. The Forrest sounded like an apocalypse was happening with the loud emergency horn blaring.

As soon as you're dressed, Konig nudges you forward and bites the back of your dress and picks you up.

You dangle from his mouth by your dress like a kitten, staring down at the ground below you.

"Konig, I can walk." You whine, but he keeps walking. Your dress felt tight as if you were hanging from a zip line harness.

'Im getting your ass back home, my way.' He didn't have time to argue with you and you didn't bother, knowing how his attitude can get. You cross your arms and huff, watching the moving ground as you sway.

It was wildly uncomfortably and you didn't care about his wolfy habits, you didn't want to be carried like a baby puppy by its neck.

"Konig please put me down!' You huff and he stops abruptly, setting you down gently on your feet and growls, rolling his eyes.

'Get on my back or I'm carrying you again.' He snarls and lays down for a second so you can jump up, grabbing a handful of his fur. You sit on him like a horse and struggle to not smile despite the current situation, so you lay on him and bury your face in the part of his fluff not dripping with blood and dirt.

Konig feels your hands kneading into him, petting and scratching him mindlessly as he gracefully carried you to the castle.

It felt good, even with your poison healing his major wounds he still felt beaten down and bruised but your small hands were a nice relief.

Which angered him more, he'd want nothing more than to stay with you, he wasn't actually upset with you.

He was such a beautiful wolf, you've been admirning him more in the this form unable to understand why yet.

The emotional tether between you and him was stronger now more than ever.

The attack made you sad, you knew he'd be busy the rest of the night but you wanted to lay in bed with him and cuddle into his long, fluffy, calico fur while his big, cold nose nuzzles into your neck.

'I'll be with you as soon as I can, my kleine liebe. I promise. I will not leave you three tonight.' He includes the babies and you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind and kissing the top of his head.

"I love you." You chirp and hold him a minute longer.

'I love you, now get inside, go to our room and don't come out for anything. I'll have guards keep you safe, I'll be back by dark.' He orders you, arriving at the front doors of the castle which was already heavily guarded.

He crouches down and you slide off his back and give him a kiss on the side of his snout before the guards open the doors for you.

It shuts loudly, being no ones in the lobby and all outside fighting.

The four guards who followed you in per their Alphas orders and grab you some food and drinks to keep in your room, making sure you're properly taken care of while Konig takes care of business.

They were very generous, holding the doors open for you and speaking to you with much respect.

They were young still, haven't found their mate yet but that's what rutting season is for. Once you mate, you mate for life unless one dies or it becomes a polyamorous thing.

One of the guards kept closer to than the others, extra intrigued with your pregnancy. He could smell it, the change in hormones and how strong they are when a woman is expecting.

He couldn't help it, he loved the scent, inching closer to you and sniffing you some more.

He was one of the more slutty wolves though, chasing after pregnant women within the pack and in society. Human women had a different scent though, it was sweeter and more potent. But you weren't human, not fully. You had the best of all three, being human/vampire while carrying wolf babies.

He's never smelled anything like it and his curiosity was getting the best of him.

"Quit!" His brother punches him away, seeing how your completely oblivious. They looked just alike, black hair with green eyes.

The movement makes you turn around, looking at them with raised brows as the guilty one stares at you with shameful puppy dog eyes.

"Sorry for his unruliness, he's just more dog than boy." His brother, Seth, answered for him and rolled his eyes.

"What were you doing?" You ask the guilty one, who stuffs his hands in his jeans being he don't have his hands full of snacks and drinks.

"...smelling... you." Sid answers hesitantly and you quirk a half smile.

"Why?" You almost laugh at the ridiculous reasoning. Dogs will be dogs I guess.

"We can smell your pregnancy and let's just say certain hormones change and become... stronger." Seth answers for Sid again and you whip around, continuing to walk to your bedroom.

"I don't wanna know." You shake your head, realizing why Konigs nose was constantly between your legs the days leading up to the doctors appointment.

He's been more feral here lately, almost abandoning his humanly habits with you. So much licking. And the howling? Oh my god you have to beg him to come inside sometimes, damn near dragging him by his tail through the balcony doors.

He's chewed up almost every pair of panties you own, being he can't simply take them off of you and then saves them for later when you're asleep and needs to taste you.

The last week he's refused to go to the groomer when he won't shift back, making you bathe his fur in the large round bathtub in the middle of your shared bathroom.

He only does it to get his way, pinning you down with his large, fat paws and lapping at your slick folds as he mindlessly humps the air and ignores your squeals of anger mixed with pleasure. It only turned him on more.

He'd act out sometimes, chewing your hair straightener cord in half in hopes of stopping you from getting ready and leaving the house. He knew he could use his power over you, but he liked the illusion of choice. It was a game, really.

Lighthearted defiance was a part of any wolf and you learned that quickly, taking part in your own acts of defiance towards him. It kept things exciting, which.. when you're married to a wolf everyday is exciting.

You sit in your room on the bed, antsy, waiting for Konig to come back and wondering if he's okay.

The two guards at your bedroom door had walkie talkies as well as the ones by the balcony doors so you could tune into what was going on.

The pack was taking control, subduing the intruders and locking them up with silver cuffs and putting them in The Jail For Lycanthropy. Konig was patrolling the perimeter, seeing over each of his soldiers squads as they gather the bastard wolves that dared infiltrate their home.

Some of them were already dead from fighting, some half eaten and torn in half.. Konig had always taught his soldiers the more ruthless way of taking out an opponent so they don't become a future enemy.

He was proud seeing how his men and women held their ground, young, old, recently recruited and retired- they all did their job efficiently and kept their home intact.

Now he'd have to call a meeting in the lobby in the morning, congratulate his pack and show his gratitude.

That was most important as a leader, so he's learned.

Most people think control is what makes you a good leader, but unity and understanding- recognition towards the ones who follow you. That's what's important, you don't have to control them when they'd do anything for you anyway seeing the type of leader you are.

Konig struts down the paved walkway that leads to the castle, the sun was setting and he was absolutely beat.

'I miss you.' He whines a little loudly, hoping he's close enough in vicinity for the bond to connect to you.

But you were asleep, not hearing him in your mind like you were waiting on hours before.

He begins to run towards the castle, worried for your silence; he sprints across the yard and into the lobby. His nails click agaisnt the tile as he runs down the long hall that had the room youre in, and bursts in. He jumps on the bed, seeing your sleeping frame still in your bloody dress..

He bares his teeth and barks at the four guards he's sent up here, shooing them away so he can be alone with you.

The scurry off and shut the doors behind them, seeing as their King is in a sour mood.

He gets pissy when he's sleepy and hasn't been around you, as if you're his emotional stability. He licks his chops and lays around you, encasing your body with his as he cuddles into a little ball with you tucked into his chest and belly.

You were so tired but still tried to come to for him, your hands mindlessly roaming his fur. A deep rumble of satisfaction comes from him, deep from his chest as he feels your tiny hands on him. He lightly, very softly licks your cheek and lips affectionately before he lays his head down to sleep.

Deep down his wolf was nothing but a big sweet lover, thirsty for your validation and praises as well as possessive and over protective. Especially now that you're pregnant, it'd be impossible to have even a second of alone time.

Its been five months and you were growing by the day, and the cravings were ridiculous. Steak and cinnamon rolls, raw meat, blood, chips- it was an endless ask but Konig was enamored with the entire process.

Looking at you with heart eyes as you ate his latest hunt, bloody and uncaring of how crazy you looked. He was so in love with you though, everyday you look more beautiful than the last. But this? It was pure art, raw and expressive and so painfully real.

You were the epitome of beauty to him, physically and through your expressiveness. You became more intense than ever, taking him somewhere deep each time you kiss him in a rush of pleasurable need.

As soon as you were done with the deer he caught you, he was infront of you licking the blood off your face, his tongue occasionally slipping inside your mouth.

"Thank you." You tell him, your voice sweet and small as you sat on the grass with your legs extended infront of you.

He licks your head, the motion ruffling your hair before he lays his head on your thighs. His nose touching your belly so he can feel when the babies flutter, his big red eyes extra focused.

He liked being this close to your scent as well, it being stronger than ever. He was obsessed, deeply and truly possessive of your entire being. An imprint only gets stronger as more time is spent with their mate, especially when the action is returned- even the slightest bit of affection keeps them pining for your love.

"I love you, Konig." You smile down at him looking up at you from your lap and he lifts his head, licking his chops. That excited gleam in his eyes, the way he shifted his paws impatiently- he wanted to lick your pussy some more.

"No, Konig. Wait till we get home." You coo, petting his head briefly but he whines and licks his lips again. He nudges your dress and looks back up at you.

'I love you too, please, you smell so good mama-' His begging was cute, those big eyes so hopeful as he excitedly wagged his tail.

He begins licking your thigh and pushes your hand out of his way with his nose and you softly giggle.

"You're so hard headed!" You squeal when he pushes his head between your legs, his soft fur tickling the insides of your thighs.

He licks your pussy through the panties, his eyes looking up at you to see your reaction.

Everyday leading up to your birth was like that, swatting his nose when he suffered it under your dress in public; which wolves weren't shameful creatures anyway. PDA was quite normal but you liked your privacy and, voyeurism wasn't your thing.

He was such a good father, so caring and gentle as he held his newborn son.

He shifted back human once he realized your water broke, immediately taking you to the community hospital. You jad no complications and decided to take an epidural and asked Konig to release enough poison from your eye to heal you.

It worked, leaving your eye still fully white only more glossy like.

"You did so good, darling. Look how beautiful our children are-' Konig praises you, kissing your head before he sits on the edge of the hospital bed.

You smile proudly at him, holding your son close while you watched your mate caress his fingers over your daughters small face. Watching the joy and compassion in his eyes was serene, he was such an intense man. So much to unpack with him, his personality was intricately compartmentalized. You had to really pay attention to Konig to want to understand him, but you'd have to get close to him for that.

And you're the closest and still haven't unpacked all that he is, but you knew that he was perfect in your eyes.

Your life together was perfect, something of a dream or from a book; A tale as old as time.

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